


broken wing.

by katified



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Civil War Fix-It, Gen, Hydra Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2020-07-12 14:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 67,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19947580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katified/pseuds/katified
Summary: “Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything?” At Fury’s almost condescending inquiry, the kid pursed his lips—which, while not much of a reaction, was still something. “I know a few people with enhanced strength and healing. In my experience, that comes with an enhanced metabolism, and if I recall, it’s been at least twelve hours since you last ate. You must be starving right about now.”“If you answer a few questions for us,” Natasha picked up, “we’ll bring you something to eat. Sounds simple, right?”The kid opened his mouth, closed it, ran his tongue across his lips, then leaned back in his chair. “I can starve.”***Despite Steve's best attempts, Hydra survived and is recovering; however, during what appeared at first to be a routine raid, the Avengers discover what—or who—may be the key to dismantling the organization for good. Unfortunately, these things are never easy, as their most promising lead refuses to cooperate.





	1. once or twice.

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, this work is going to contain some rather triggering subjects—please don't read this if you're bothered by that sort of thing. Such subjects include but may not be limited to: violence, murder, brainwashing, self-harm, suicide/suicidal ideation, referenced animal death, and typical Hydra cruelty. Take care of yourselves, my dudes!
> 
> The general Civil War fix-it is as follows: several months after the Accords passed, Tony reached out to Steve to make amends, partly inspired by frustrations with Ross and partially inspired by the realization that Hydra is still alive and kicking, and they worked together to appeal and revise the Accords to allow more flexibility and control while maintaining their accountability. It's been roughly five months since the Revisions passed and the rogues started coming back to join the team, and Tony lets Bucky stay at the Compound after assurances from Shuri—but they don't particularly get along and mostly just politely tolerate each other.
> 
> Broken Wing is a great song by Thousand Foot Krutch.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

After Steve ripped Hydra out of SHIELD, Tony hoped that would be the last they ever saw of the organization; even though he hadn’t been involved with the matter, he still felt a deep-rooted weariness each and every time the subject came up, so he couldn’t imagine how it all affected Steve at this point, especially when they realized that Hydra hadn’t been destroyed after all. After the years of struggling and getting his friend back—well, fighting Hydra seemed to be a lifetime occupation for the good captain.

They were starting to resemble cockroaches more than serpents, really. Or whatever they liked to compare themselves to. This time, unfortunately, the Avengers had a hard time finding any concrete information regarding hideouts and agents, and though they found and took down the occasional evil compound, they didn’t appear to be making any significant progress. Tony wanted nothing more than to make a major breakthrough that’d enable them to take down Hydra in one fell swoop.

As it stood, however, raids had a certain predictable lull to them. Break down some doors, knock out some bad guys, try and prevent the true fanatics from swallowing cyanide pills, make some witty comments, recover whatever documents he could find. Some papers were more useful than others, but none of them were useful enough.

Sometimes, Tony considered inviting Barnes on these raids just for the sake of spicing things up.

Before he could fall too far into that train of thought, a few voices he overheard spiced the raid up well enough. As he moved to round a corner, he caught whispers of some guards rushing to _secure the asset_ , and on the scale of things that sounded important—and useful—that took the cake. Tony, in his best imitation of a spy’s stealth, followed behind the guards, allowing them to unintentionally lead him to said asset.

 _“Be careful, Stark,”_ Steve advised from where he fought bad guys on the other side of the compound. _“Asset is how they referred to Bucky.”_

Tony rolled his eyes despite the fact that the other man couldn’t see him. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, voice low to avoid being overheard. In all these raids, they hadn’t encountered anything particularly special—some better than average combatants, but no one too difficult to take down—and perhaps that was due to the Hydra agents anticipating their actions. This time, however, he felt confident that they’d taken them more by surprise.

And if they could acquire something Hydra called an _asset_ , then that’d be pretty great.

Once the guards stopped in front of and opened a high-security door, Tony swiftly took them out and informed the team of his location before stepping into the hallway. It was more barren than he expected—but slightly cleaner than the rest of the compound. Definitely more deserted. And though he wasn’t quite sure what he expected, what he found couldn’t be further from it.

Eventually, he came across what appeared to be a cell with glass walls and a simple bed in the middle, and he slowed to a halt as he studied its occupant. Whoever it was laid facing away from him in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, along with what appeared to be a blindfold and headphones displacing brown curls. His wrists and ankles were chained to the bedframe, and his visible skin was littered with scrapes and bruises. And—worst of all, in fact—he seemed to be rather young based on his size.

Was this the asset those guards were talking about? Well, Tony figured there was only one way to find out. With less malice than he had upon initially entering the room, he forced open the glass door—the clear door, rather, since the material was far stronger than glass—and approached the bed, wondering what he should be prepared for. “Hey kid, what—?”

A snap and a thud were his only warning before he found himself flying backwards, crashing through the glass wall and into the concrete behind it. Despite his helmet, stars filled his vision as his head smacked into the ground, and he let out a soft groan. _Compose yourself, Stark,_ he chided mentally before forcing himself to sit back up and focusing his attention back on the kid. He opted not to pay attention to FRIDAY’s inquiry into his well-being.

Said kid was half-sat up, half-turned around, one arm still raised and his head tilted childishly to the side. The broken chain dangled from his wrist restraint. “Oh, hey man,” he greeted, voice thick like he just woke up and unbelievably casual. As though he _hadn’t_ just punched Iron Man across a room with no apparent effort spent. As though he _couldn’t_ have just killed someone with that sort of force.

Tony Stark, genius billionaire philanthropist, couldn’t fathom what just happened. “Yeah, hey man,” he returned as he regained his footing—though he wobbled a little more than he’d admit to.

 **“Be careful,”** his AI warned. **“Another hit like that one could damage the suit’s arc reactor.”** Which meant that somehow, this kid—this hardly awake, injured, blindfolded _kid_ —managed to land a powerful blow square in the middle of his chest before he or FRIDAY could even register the movement.

Asset indeed.

Natasha’s voice came through the coms next. _“Stark, what happened? Are you getting beat up by the asset?”_

“Something like that, yeah,” the billionaire muttered.

_“Wilson and I are on our way.”_

Keeping a safe distance this time, he watched the kid yawn, break off the rest of his restraints—one of which Tony noted to be oddly reddish—and remove the blindfold and headphones before he rubbed his eyes, and the billionaire caught side of what appeared to be a serial code tattooed on his left wrist. “Anyway, uh—hail Hydra?”

Tony could think of very few things he hated more than those two words. Somehow, he doubted that a prisoner would think it wise to say them in this scenario, which made it worse. “Are you an agent?” he questioned. In theory, he should be holding up a blaster or something to make himself more intimidating, but he couldn’t bring himself to threaten an injured child; after all, heroes were supposed to _save_ injured children, not hurt them. But if the kid was a Hydra agent, then what?

He prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that this child did not try and fight him.

The kid threw his legs over the side of the bed, feet barely brushing the floor, but made no move to stand up, shrugging instead. Overall, he appeared to be _almost_ indifferent to this whole situation; however, the billionaire didn’t miss the way he shifted his weight. “Something to that effect, yeah. You’re Iron Man, right?”

“The one and only. And you are?”

“No one.”

Tony highly doubted that. But before he could argue, Sam and Natasha stepped into the room, weapons drawn as they observed the situation—though the latter quickly lowered hers. Tony found himself equally grateful for and irritated by the way Sam didn’t falter. “So what,” the former airman asked, “is Hydra running a daycare now?”

Snorting out a laugh, the kid shrugged once more. “I don’t really feel like fighting you guys,” he held up his hands, “so I guess that means I surrender.”

Sam and Tony exchanged a look, but Natasha took the initiative and approached the kid, who watched her. “Careful Romanoff, the kid bites,” Tony warned—which she didn’t look back to acknowledge. A smart move, really.

The kid leaned back slightly when she stopped in front of him. “Open your mouth,” she instructed, and once he obliged—shockingly obedient—she checked for a cyanide pill, then stepped back upon finding nothing. “Stand up, hands behind your back.”

Despite his doubts that the handcuffs would be effective, Tony didn’t say anything, especially when the kid seemed to be earnest in his surrender—which just confused him more. Then what was the point of punching him across the room? To establish that he _could_ fight back if he wanted to? Or was it simply instinct upon waking up? For the briefest moment, he wondered if the kid ever accidentally killed someone with that reflex, but he quickly brushed the thought aside. Not something he wanted to picture.

“We found an enhanced kid,” Tony updated the rest of the team as he led the way with Natasha, Sam, and their new prisoner following behind. “He surrendered. We’re taking him in.”

 _“You can go on ahead. We’re just about finished out here,”_ Steve replied. Which meant that SHIELD would soon step in to take over the rest of the cleanup, and they would go home and write up reports. Just another stage of the lull.

From the moment they stepped outside, Tony kept a careful eye out in case the kid decided to make a break for it, but the walk to the helicopter was ultimately uneventful; he did note, however, how the kid’s eyes lit up slightly as he glanced around the interior, offering no protest to being strapped in and restrained. He angled himself to look out the window, but after a couple minutes, he sunk back into his seat and squeezed his eyes shut.

“You okay?” Tony asked, and the kid just shook his head and didn’t respond to anything beyond that. At some point, he either fell asleep or passed out. The billionaire would bet his fortune on the latter.

***

Because the kid was enhanced, the team convinced SHIELD that they were the ones best suited to take care of him for the time being, and as such, he was moved to a seldom-used interrogation room at the Avenger’s Compound. He didn’t wake up, which was slightly concerning, but a medical evaluation didn’t reveal any pressing concerns. The next morning, Steve watched him through the one-way mirror, since they were taking shifts keeping an eye on him until he woke up.

From what he could see of the kid’s skin, his wounds were already healed, and Steve found himself wondering what Hydra did to him—used the super soldier serum, maybe? That didn’t explain how small the kid was, however, so perhaps they’d found some other way to cause such enhancements. If so, did that mean they had more _assets_ now? That could spell trouble for the team. Even if this kid surrendered peacefully, that didn’t mean any other agents would. They also couldn’t rule out the possibility of an ulterior motive.

The kid shifted after awhile. A little bit, followed by a few long moments of stillness, then a little more until he lifted his head and drowsily observed his surroundings. First the cuffs around his wrists—mostly made of Vibranium with a thin magnetic ring in the center sticking them together, and another set bound his ankles to the chair—then the metal table and chairs, the white walls, then his gaze settled on the mirror.

Steve waited for another few minutes, watching the kid’s gaze wander once more as he leaned back in his chair, and just as he looked towards the ceiling to ask FRIDAY to tell Tony to come down, the door to the observation room opened. The billionaire stepped up to the mirror, followed by Natasha, Sam, Bucky, and Nick Fury. “Has he said anything?” Tony asked, studying the kid.

Shaking his head, Steve glanced towards Bucky with a raised eyebrow since he usually wasn’t involved in Avengers business, to which his friend shrugged. “They said I might have useful input,” he explained. He turned his attention towards the interrogation room, silent for a long moment before speaking again. “Well, I don’t recognize him.”

After another moment of observation, Fury addressed Natasha. “We might as well get started.” The two made their way into the interrogation room, settling into the seats across from the kid, who sat up straight and rested his hands on the table. A brief staring contest ensued, and half a minute passed before the SHIELD director broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

In response, the kid held up his wrist so that the serial code on the underside was visible: **C-62039.** The small black font hovered just above his cuff. It was certainly not a name, but for the time being, they didn’t press the issue. “Your age?” Natasha continued, only to receive a shrug in response.

Steve had hoped that _surrender_ would equate to _cooperation_ , but evidently, that assumption didn’t hold ground. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched as they settled back into silence. The director’s and the assassin’s eyes remained locked on the kid’s as he glanced back and forth between the two of them, expression neutral.

“Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything?” At Fury’s almost condescending inquiry, the kid pursed his lips—which, while not much of a reaction, was still something. “I know a few people with enhanced strength and healing. In my experience, that comes with an enhanced metabolism, and if I recall, it’s been at least twelve hours since you last ate. You must be starving right about now.”

“If you answer a few questions for us,” Natasha picked up, “we’ll bring you something to eat. Sounds simple, right?”

The kid opened his mouth, closed it, ran his tongue across his lips, then leaned back in his chair. “I can starve.” Based on the confidence with which he said it, he probably _could_.

And based on the assortment of frowns and furrowed eyebrows from those watching the interrogation, no one was pleased by the answer. “He can _starve_?” Tony repeated like he couldn’t believe what he just heard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Considering how you found him, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s used to torture,” Sam replied, voice low and serious in the way it rarely was outside of a fight, and Steve didn’t miss the hint of disgust either.

The captain always loathed Hydra—their actions, what they stood for, all of it—and he’d long since gotten used to the way dealing with them made his stomach turn; however, seeing a child as the victim of their cruelty only made the nausea that much more intense. Children were supposed to be protected.

Natasha and Fury exchanged a glance, and Steve idly wondered if the director picked the phrasing of his next question as an attempt to rile the kid up. “Why did you swear loyalty to Hydra?”

It worked. The kid snorted, a corner of his lips quirking up, before he ducked his head into his chest as full-blown laughter overtook him. He sounded hoarse, dehydrated perhaps, and Steve had to remind himself not to interfere. Once his amusement died down, he looked back up. “Only fools swear loyalty to Hydra. Those fanatics who’d rather die than surrender because they think they’re protecting something of value—they’re the only loyal ones.”

Natasha tapped her finger against the table. “What does that make you, then?”

“Others are pressured into complacency,” the kid continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “Hydra finds a weakness and exploits it. That’s something they’re really good at. And then— _tools_ aren’t given a choice one way or another.”

“You have a choice now,” she informed him, folding her hands together.

He smiled, thin and strained. “Do I?” Gesturing towards the security camera in the corner of the room, he waited until both of them looked at it before addressing Fury. “How well do you know everyone who works for you? Their upbringing, families, hobbies—everything that makes them who they are. How many of them can you say beyond a shadow of a doubt are you who believe they are? Even someone you’ve known your entire life can be compromised.”

Tony frowned. “Kid sounds more paranoid than Fury,” he muttered.

“He probably has good reason to be,” Bucky countered.

“I don’t put much faith in everyone around me,” Fury leaned back in his chair, “but I do know there are people worth trusting. We can protect you from Hydra, but only if you give us a reason to. Now, what’s your name?”

Pursing his lips, the kid’s gaze dropped to his wrist, his fingers twisting together. “On good days, one of my handlers would call me C-6. Sometimes I used aliases on missions. Aside from that, well, I’ve gone over half my life without hearing my actual name.”

Natasha’s voice softened. “Do you remember what it is?”

The kid didn’t respond. From there, no matter what Natasha or Fury asked or said to him, he sat there and ignored it all, hardly moving aside from picking at his nails every now and then. After an hour, the two left him alone and returned to the observation room a moment later. Sam broke the silence that settled over them. “Who knew twelve year-olds could be so cynical?”

Before anyone could respond to the statement, Bucky nodded towards the kid, who was looking at the mirror. “You might want to talk somewhere else,” he said. “I’m pretty sure he can hear us.” As if on cue, the kid smiled a little and waved.

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. “You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?”

Bucky shrugged. “You didn’t notice?”

Suffice to say, they moved to a different part of the Compound, meeting up with the rest of the currently available team in the common room after Tony instructed FRIDAY to keep them updated if the kid did anything. Clint, who’d been combing through the documents they recovered, set one thin file on the table. “Well, I can’t say there was much useful information to be found—as usual. This is the only thing I found regarding the kid.”

While Tony snatched it up and Fury moved to read over his shoulder, Natasha, for the sake of everyone else, asked, “What does it say?”

“Well, there were no records regarding who he is or how he got his powers,” Clint summarized, “but this mentions a few experiments trying to recreate his abilities. They all failed. Is it possible that’s why they took him in?”

“No.” Tony pursed his lips as he scanned through the couple pages. “This is dated back two and a half years ago. He said—or implied, rather—that he’s been with Hydra for over half his life. Unless he’s even younger than he looks, the times don’t match up. This also fails to explain _what_ his powers are.”

Rhodey took a seat on the couch, his leg braces whirring at the motion. “Did the interrogation go well?”

“Not in the slightest.” Fury scoffed. “He doesn’t show any loyalty to Hydra, but he refuses to give up any information regardless of that.”

“Trust issues,” Tony added helpfully.

“We were hoping to get him talking by offering food and to keep him safe, but he didn’t bite. I imagine Hydra’s tortured him enough that he knows how to withstand whatever discomfort he’s in. He seems to have far more willpower than the guys we usually interrogate.” Natasha stared down at her hands folded in her lap before looking over her shoulder to smile at Steve. “I have an idea, though. Are you up to dusting off the old good-cop bad-cop routine?”

Half-heartedly, Steve returned the expression. “You’ll have to tone down your bad cop. I don’t think kicking anyone off the roof will help this time around.”

***

They waited about three hours. In that time, the kid didn’t do anything of note aside from doze off for a few minutes every now and then, and when Steve and Natasha entered the room—the former with a plate of food and a glass of water—he perked up, his eyes mostly glued to Steve as the soldier set his lunch on the table in front of him. When the two sat down across from him, Natasha pushed her chair back and crossed her legs on the table, staring him down.

The kid didn’t even glance at the food. “Your eyes are blue,” he commented instead. It sounded like a compliment. “I mean, I heard they’re blue, but they’re _really_ blue. It’s cool.” Not quite the reaction he expected, but Steve would take it—though he couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows. When he didn’t receive a proper response, the kid continued. “Everyone at the base always has dark hair and eyes, like it’s a recruitment condition or something. It gets kinda dull. You know that Hydra hates you the most, right?”

“I’m aware of that, yes.” Steve could almost swear that the kid sounded happy about that, and in a different situation, he might’ve been amused by the casual way he said it. He reached out to push the plate of food a little closer to him. “You should eat.”

His fingers twitching, the kid looked down at the plate momentarily before clearing his throat and moving his hands to rest in his lap. “It’s pretty impressive, really, that a single person is the embodiment of everything Hydra hates.”

 _“He sounds like a Captain America fan,”_ Tony’s voice came through his earpiece. And maybe that’d help in the long run.

“Bucky has blue eyes too.” The kid’s smile faltered as he squinted, and upon realizing that he didn’t recognize the name, Steve clarified, “The Winter Soldier.”

That appeared to strike a nerve. Several different—and mostly conflicting—emotions flashed across the kid’s expression as he dropped his gaze to the table, swallowed thickly, and pressed his lips into a thin line. Though Bucky said he didn’t recognize him, the kid seemed to have quite a few opinions about the man. “Yeah,” he forced out, voice thick with unvoiced thoughts, “Hydra hates him too.”

The reaction interested Steve, to say the least. He hadn’t known what to expect when he brought up his friend, but of all the feelings written on the kid’s face, he wouldn’t call any of them _hatred_. Then again, he’d yet to express that he agreed with any of Hydra’s viewpoints. With a soft sigh, Steve rested his arms on the table and leaned his weight on them. “We want to help you,” he said, sympathetic.

“I’m sure you do.” The kid snorted, his lips twisting up into a dark smile. “And you do have a very trustworthy face, but that doesn’t mean you can help.”

Whether or not he could help never stopped Steve from trying, and even if he ultimately failed, he never saw it as wasted effort. He wanted to help this child—no matter what he said to deter him, his resolve wouldn’t falter. “That doesn’t mean we can’t try,” he countered.

The kid held his gaze, just as steady. “I’ve never met him—the Winter Soldier, that is—but we were at the same base once. You know that chair they use to suppress memories? I only knew he was there because they put him in that. That was about… three years ago, three and a half? Anyway, I could hear him screaming from across the base. Blood-chilling, excruciating—easily the worst sound I’ve ever heard.”

Bucky didn’t talk much about his time in Hydra; for the most part, Steve only heard secondhand information that his friend told SHIELD about in exchange for his pardon, and even then, he didn’t pay much attention to it since it seemed like a breach of privacy. He understood, really, given his own reluctance to talk about the war and other such topics. So while he knew a little bit about this chair the kid mentioned, he didn’t have enough detail to properly envision it—or how painful the process was.

If the kid meant to get under his skin, this was the perfect way to do it. Sensing her partner falter, Natasha stepped in to bring the conversation back around. “Have they ever put you in the chair?”

“Once or twice.” The kid shrugged. “Not enough to scramble my head _that_ much.”

Reaching forward, Natasha picked up one half of the grilled chicken sandwich, took a bite, placed it back on the plate, then leaned back as she chewed, and though the kid’s jaw tightened, he didn’t waver in making eye contact. Steve could almost commend his willpower—he could hardly imagine how hungry he must be, after all. “What does it feel like?” she inquired upon swallowing, which took awhile given how she savored the food.

Despite that, the kid forced a smile. “Like someone drilled a hole in your skull, scooped your brains out with a spoon, then replaced them with sand by firing each individual grain into the empty space.”

Yes, that did indeed sound excruciating. And the more he kept speaking, Steve noted, the scratchier his voice sounded.

Natasha nodded slowly as she absorbed this information. “Do you remember anything about your life before Hydra?” As they’d figured out, this chair only suppressed memories and did not erase them; between time passing and triggers, memories eventually surfaced—which seemed to mean that people who were put in the chair were forced to endure it over and over again.

“Like that name you’re so interested in?” A laugh almost escaped the kid, whose lips pursed. Because Steve didn’t expect an actual answer from him—they’d yet to be that lucky—what he heard next surprised him. “I heard about the chair way before they ever used it on me. Little kids are much easier to control, you know, so it wasn’t… necessary to force me into obedience. Unlike with, say, a trained soldier. That and it probably would have killed me. But I was a clever kid, so I found a way to subvert the effects—at least somewhat.”

He might’ve continued if not for the coughing fit that overtook him despite his best efforts to smother it. Steve held out the glass of water, and after some mumbled, incoherent protests, the kid accepted it, downing the whole thing in one gulp before attempting to catch his breath. After giving him a moment to somewhat compose himself, Steve pressed on. “What did you do?”

This time, the kid just shook his head, half-hunched over in his seat. “I’m not telling you,” he wheezed. Maybe he’d gotten a little ahead of himself—slipped up and said more than he meant to. The topic of Bucky seemed to get under his skin as much as it did the captain’s, which was useful information in and of itself. A glance Steve shared with Natasha confirmed that she thought the same.

“How did you get your powers?” Natasha opted to change the subject. The kid shook his head again. “Why was Hydra trying to recreate them?”

Scoffing, the kid stared pointedly at the mirror behind them before looking back at her. “Why do you _think_?”

To replace Bucky after he defected. Yes, that fit in with the date on the file. “We’ve found evidence that they’ve tried to recreate the super soldier serum,” Steve commented, “but from what we could tell, they haven’t gotten very far.” Raids would otherwise not be as simple as they were—most of the time. “I’m guessing your abilities are the result of something else. Did they forget to write down the recipe?”

“Yeah, something like that,” the kid responded with a laugh—airier than before and _almost_ genuine. “You know, I’ve never heard anyone talk about how much of a smart-ass you are, and now I’m kinda offended. This is great. But anyway, no, my abilities were entirely an accident. A happy one, apparently. Based on all their dumb tests, my strength outclasses that of the Winter Soldier. It’s not so happy for the people who died in the subsequent experiments, though.”

To be fair, those people likely would have been experimented on anyway, knowing Hydra. Steve offered a smile in return for the kid’s apparent amusement. “Well, you _did_ punch Stark across a room.”

 _“I resent that, Rogers,”_ Tony voiced, indignant, which elicited another laugh from the kid.

Natasha glanced between the kid and the mirror. “How well can you hear what they’re saying?” Though it was evident that he _could_ hear them, he barely offered much reaction to anything.

He stiffened, biting his lip as he hesitated to answer. “Back there?” he started after a moment, nodding towards the mirror. “Enough to distinguish their voices and pick out a couple words every now and then. Here?” Lifting his hands, he gestured towards his ear to signal the coms. “All of it.”

A couple words every now and then could be enough to get the gist of a conversation. Steve recalled the way he waved at them before, how he appeared to know enough of what they—or Bucky in particular, rather—said to give a fitting response.

Tony Stark, naturally, took that as a reason to continue speaking over the coms. _“Hey squirt, how’re you feeling?”_

Steve could hear the beginnings of Fury scolding him when the line went quiet once more. And obviously, the kid did too. “Is he allowed to be speaking to me?” he asked the soldier. “I just don’t want him to get in trouble.”

Whether or not he was serious, Steve couldn’t tell. He sighed, figuring it was probably best to move on. “You’re strong, heal fast, and have enhanced hearing. Any other abilities we should know about?”

“Not that I’ll tell you about.” The kid offered him a sweet smile. Some probably weren’t impossible to guess: his hearing likely meant the rest of his senses were enhanced too, for example. Enhanced strength may lend to enhanced speed. “I have a question, actually. Where would I be right now if I were an adult?”

“In an interrogation room,” Natasha responded promptly, raising an eyebrow as if to question whether or not he expected something else, “with agents questioning you.”

“Agents,” the kid repeated. “Not Avengers. It doesn’t matter that I’m enhanced, does it? I’m sure SHIELD knows how to deal with people like me, so I’m no more secure here than I am there. And I’m sure you know that you’re not supposed to bring something,” he nudged the plate, “for nothing. The thought behind it’s that it might throw me off if you’re nice to me ‘cause I’m not used to being treated with basic human decency, right?”

“We’re not going to torture you for information,” Steve countered.

The kid rolled his eyes. “I have no incentive to comply. That’s a problem for you.”

“You do have incentive.” Taking her feet off the table, Natasha sat up properly. “It’s called your freedom. If you cooperate, we can help you get pardoned for whatever crimes Hydra forced you to commit.”

“That might be incentive if I actually cared, yes.”

Natasha quirked an eyebrow as she leaned closer, challenging. “You don’t care if SHIELD throws you in a maximum-security cell to rot for the rest of your life? That’s an awfully long time, given how young you are.”

The kid mimicked her posture. “Sounds cozy.”

For a moment, Steve glanced between them, observing the staring contest that broke out. Then he sighed. He knew that whatever the kid dealt with couldn’t be easy; he had enough experience with Bucky to be certain of that. Nothing was as simple as anyone wanted it to be. Natasha opened her mouth to speak again, but the soldier beat her to it. “Why?”

Shifting his attention, the kid watched him—observed his open posture, the sincerity in his expression. It took a full minute of him sitting perfectly still until he decided to respond. “When my handlers realized that I could heal fast, they started getting very, _very_ creative with their punishments. I endured it by focusing on other things. Water dripping down through a hole in the ceiling, the guards talking on a different floor, the smell of dirt. But then, as it turns out, sensory deprivation makes the pain far more intense. Because it removes all distractions, see.”

Steve recalled how Tony found the kid—blindfolded and wearing headphones that, given this new information, most likely muffled sound. Injured. He must have been in the middle of receiving one of these punishments, and the soldier idly wondered what it was for.

“I do remember my name,” the kid continued. “If you really want to know it that badly, then how about this? Over the years, I’ve discovered that there’s only one thing that makes the pain more intense than sensory deprivation does. If you can tell me that, I’ll tell you my name. But I’m only giving you one chance, so you better think it over carefully.”

Sensory deprivation on its own could be plenty maddening, even to someone without enhanced senses; just that sounded like torture enough, let alone when used in conjunction with other methods, and Steve had trouble thinking of what could be worse. Nonetheless, he accepted the challenge. “Do we have a deadline?”

“No. You can go talk it over with your friends and come back once you have an answer.” The kid glanced around the room. “I mean, it’s not like I really have any way of timing you.”

“Alright. We’ll see you then,” Natasha promised, and the two stood to leave while the kid waved them off. A minute later, Steve came back with a refilled cup of water and left the food behind before reconvening with the team.

***

“If it takes this much effort to get his name,” Fury said with a scoff, “then I can’t imagine what it’ll take for information that’s actually useful.”

Suffice to say, not everyone was pleased with the kid’s riddle; even though they all wanted to help him, he wasn’t exactly making that easy, especially when they couldn’t tell if the game was progress or not—or even if him talking more was a good sign. For all they knew, the kid would continue to refuse their offer to help, and if he didn’t want it, could they really do anything?

Clint glanced towards Natasha. “Do you think he’ll actually hold up his end of the deal?”

“Well,” Natasha shrugged, “he hasn’t shown any signs that he’s lied about anything, but that doesn’t mean he can’t change his mind later. I don’t think he expects us to answer it correctly.”

Shaking his head, Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “What kind of riddle—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish before Bucky, who’d been sitting silently on the edge of the group with his chin resting in his hands, spoke up. “I know the answer.” He said it half to himself, only to sit up straighter when all eyes turned to him.

“Then what is it, genius?” Tony inquired, coming to a stop from where he’d been pacing impatiently behind the couch opposite Bucky.

In a spur of the moment decision, Natasha cut in just before Bucky could open his mouth. “Barnes should be the one to tell him.”

Tony stared at her for a long moment. “I hate to break it to you, but Barnes doesn’t have the proper security clearance.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?” she countered. “Think about it, Stark. We thought Rogers’ boy scout act might throw him off enough to reveal something, but it didn’t. But we do know that the only weak spot he’s shown is Barnes. It’s worth trying.” The last three words were directed towards Fury—who was ultimately in charge of the kid, at least for the time being.

Fury thought it over. SHIELD would never approve of Bucky going anywhere near the kid; if asked, he’d barely be able to justify allowing him into the observation room. Being director didn’t give him total control over the organization—but he did know how to bend the rules. And maybe he was even better at it than Tony could hope to be. “You sent out a memo earlier that you’re updating FRIDAY’s systems, didn’t you?” he addressed the billionaire.

No. “I meant to, but I guess it slipped my mind,” Tony replied smoothly, picking up what the director was putting down. “That’s usually Pepper’s job, but since she’s out of town… well, anyone who deals with me should be used to last minute notices.”

Steve glanced between the two of them and Bucky, and it didn’t take long to piece together their plan. If nothing else, it’d be interesting.

***

Rather than eat the food left for him, the kid pushed it to the far right corner of the table, opting to sleep instead; he did, however, finish the second cup of water. Fury, Tony, Natasha, Steve, and Bucky watched him for a minute from the observation room while other members of the team stood by in the hallway. If they were going to turn off part of the security system, then they needed to be prepared in case the kid tried to run.

“Alright, FRIDAY, do it,” Tony commanded.

**“Yes, boss.”**

On cue, the kid’s head popped up, and he glanced warily around the room—and mostly at the now switched off security camera in the corner. Bucky took that as his signal to make his way into the interrogation room. The thumbprint scanner and lock on the door had been shut down, allowing him to enter with ease, food and water in hand.

A couple times while he was talking to Steve and Natasha, the kid faltered briefly, but he was overall confident and relaxed, ready for whatever they threw at him. For the most part, Bucky doubted he’d have an adverse reaction no matter who walked in to do what to him—a SHIELD agent coming to torture him, Hydra breaking him out, nothing. He seemed like the type to accept whatever came to him whether he liked it or not.

That apparently did not apply to Bucky.

It appeared to take him a moment to place who the man was—the metal arm likely gave it away—and when he did, his body language changed. Though he schooled his expression into something carefully neutral, he pressed his back against the chair, his breaths came heavier, his muscles stiffened, and he squeezed his hands together to keep them from shaking, moving them to his lap when it didn’t work.

Based on how quickly the kid’s confidence crumbled upon seeing Bucky, he’d say Natasha was right about that weak spot. The man placed the plate and cup in front of the kid. On the former was another sandwich, but he’d made this one with intentionally bland ingredients. “I’m not a good cook like Steve is,” Bucky commented as he took a seat, “but that just means this is closer to what you’re used to, right?”

Despite his apparent fear, the kid held unwavering eye contact with him. But it took him awhile to speak. “You know, technically,” his voice, which he forced into a lighthearted tone, shook, “there’s a kill-on-sight order for traitors.”

It crossed the man’s mind, yes. “You’re welcome to try it.” He highly doubted the kid would, however, given his own lack of loyalty to Hydra. Shrugging softly, Bucky made himself comfortable in his chair.

“I don’t want to.”

“Too scared?” Bucky guessed.

The kid frowned, huffing. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You sure? You look a little scared.”

“Not of you.”

Bucky watched him for a minute. A part of him hoped that the silence would cause the kid to start rambling like he did with Steve, but when that didn’t happen, he settled for pushing the plate closer to him. “Eat,” he demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument—though he didn’t expect much aside from more refusal.

But to his surprise, the kid looked down at the sandwich, bit his lip, then picked up one half and took a bite and chewed slowly, most likely to avoid upsetting his stomach. Bucky knew from experience that eating too quickly after a period of starvation could end up rather unpleasant, even if it was tempting.

“The answer to your riddle,” the man continued. “It’s hope, isn’t it?” When the kid’s shoulders sagged a bit, he interpreted that as confirmation. His voice softened. “You don’t want to hope—that things can get better, that the Avengers can help you—because you believe that it’ll be for nothing. The good things won’t last, and losing them hurts.”

As he listened, the kid finished the first half of his sandwich. “I didn’t think anyone would figure it out,” he said, soft and barely audible. Then he sighed, laughed a little. “At least, I didn’t think Captain America in particular would, but I guess that’s why he’s not in here.”

Steve was too good to understand that hope and kindness could hurt people just as much as cruelty did. He would try—because he was that sort of good person—but Bucky doubted he’d ever truly get it. Snorting, he allowed a small smirk to pull at his lips. “Yeah, he had this dumb lost look in his eye when he was sitting there trying to figure it out. I guess sending him in here to talk to you didn’t work because he’s his own unique brand of torture.”

Bucky waited expectantly as the kid took a sip of water and continued eating, eventually clearing his plate. Once done, he asked a question the man hoped he wouldn’t. “Do you really think I’m going to tell you my name?”

“Is it really that important?” Bucky shrugged. “It’s just a name.”

Evidently, his attempt at nonchalance didn’t fool the kid. “You think it is. Where would you be right now if names _weren’t_ important?”

Quite possibly on ice awaiting his next mission as Hydra’s fist. If the name _Bucky_ hadn’t affected him so much, then he wouldn’t have sought out answers on who he actually was—aside from the Winter Soldier. Names had power, which was why Hydra stripped their tools of them. So that they didn’t feel like anything more than mere assets. “You’re right,” he allowed.

The kid shifted in his seat, gripping the chair between his legs as though to brace himself, and then after a moment of straining his muscles, he jerked back, and Bucky heard his cuffs around his ankles separate from the chair legs before a loud _snap_ signaled them coming together. Apparently satisfied, the kid stretched his legs out; if Bucky had been sitting directly in front of him, he might’ve gotten kicked. A full body stretch followed.

Bucky recalled when he and Steve tested these handcuffs—from the initial prototypes all the way up to the finished product that they couldn’t even budge. Even if it was only for long enough to free his legs from the chair, this kid did just manage a feat that even the two super soldiers with their combined strength couldn’t. But, well, he _did_ say he was stronger than the Winter Soldier.

Done stretching, the kid rested his feet on the chair, legs tucked up against his chest and arms—by default—wrapped around them. “That feels better,” he declared. “I was getting stiff.”

Idly, Bucky considered the unlocked door. And could all but hear the bickering the kid just caused by doing _that_. On the bright side, he still had no apparent desire to leave. “You’re going to give Stark an aneurysm,” the former Winter Soldier commented, snorting. “He put a lot of effort into those, you know.”

“It’s not like I broke them.” Waving his hand, the kid dismissed his concerns. “They’re still keeping me reasonably restrained. It’s a good design.”

Bucky heard a click in his ear like someone pressed the button the speak into the coms, only for someone else to stop them. And based on the way the kid’s gaze drifted towards the mirror, he figured he was right about the arguing. “Yeah, sure. Look, I can’t sit in here and babysit you all day.” Not if they wanted to avoid suspicion. “Are you going to tell me your name or not?”

“Depends.” Though the kid was momentarily amused, his expression turned solemn once more. “Why do you want to know it? ‘Cause they told you to come in here and ask? ‘Cause they want information and my name’s an easy place to start? I know how this kind of thing goes.”

“You do? Based on what experience?”

“Doesn’t matter. Why?”

In theory, the kid’s name shouldn’t matter to anyone but himself. If he knew that and enough about his past to form an opinion on it—to dig in his heels this far—then was there anything anyone else could do to sway him? Idly, Bucky tapped his metal fingers against the table as he considered the question. _I want to help you._ Seeing someone in a position similar to his own left him feeling oddly empathetic in a way he wasn't used to. But the words didn’t seem right at the moment. “’Cause it’d be a hell of a lot easier than referring to you as _kid_ or _squirt_ all the time.”

The kid stared at him for a moment before burying his face into his knees, his shoulders quivering. Before Bucky could get too concerned about it, laughter overwhelmed the kid. Hearty, genuine laughter unlike anything he’d let out before, and it took a couple minutes for it to gradually die out. “Yeah,” he wheezed, “I guess you have a point.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow as he watched the kid wipe his face against his dirty sweatpants.

“Alright, fine, you win. Whatever. I’ll tell you.” The kid’s words came out muffled, and after a hefty sigh, he finally lifted his head just enough to make eye contact. “My name’s Peter.”


	2. a real choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the positive reaction to the first chapter! I was blown away by the support, and I hope to continue living up to your expectations!

“Peter,” Bucky repeated.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like _that_ ,” the kid whined, burying his face into his knees once more. “In your—dumb voice. Out loud.”

 _Peter._ If Bucky didn’t know any better, he’d say that the kid regretted his decision as soon as the name left his mouth: he curled in on himself, arms twitching as he attempted to wrap them further around his legs but failing due to the cuffs binding his wrists. “Do you have a last name, Peter?”

Tony instructed him to try and get as much information as possible—which was sort of the point to begin with, but Bucky resisted the urge to respond with a snappy remark. Sometimes, he had to remind himself that he was fortunate to be where he was. To have been pardoned, that the billionaire at least did his best to remain civil even if it often came out strained. Tony didn’t always make it easy to play nice, though.

The kid’s shoulders lifted before he deflated again with a deep sigh. “Don’t remember it. It’s… six letters? Something like that.”

Better than nothing. And knowing Tony, he’d be able to make use of that somehow. Bucky just wished that the kid didn’t look so defeated—like he’d lost an important battle. While he knew that he should be asking more questions, he couldn’t bring himself to force the kid into speaking; instead, he opted to wait and see what Peter said. If anything.

It took a whole minute. Bucky shifted in his seat, hoping the warning that he needed to leave didn’t come anytime soon. Eventually, the kid spoke again, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard clearly despite the fabric muffling his words. “Do you love Captain America?”

Bucky, fortunately, had great experience in forcing his expression and body language to remain neutral—otherwise, he might’ve reacted one way or another to the sudden question. Unfortunately, he felt all too aware of the eyes watching them from the other side of the mirror, one pair belonging to said man.

Natasha’s sly voice coming in through his earpiece didn’t help. _“Barnes, please ask him to elaborate.”_

 _Ask him yourself,_ he almost wanted to retort, but it didn’t matter since the kid heard her either way. Peter lifted his head, brows knitting together in confusion. “Elaborate how?”

Though Bucky knew what Natasha meant, it appeared that Peter didn’t, which didn’t come as a surprise. Due to the kid being raised by Hydra, he doubted he had any real concept of love—aside from it being for the weak. He recalled hearing that a few times. Whether or not the kid meant to call him weak, the man couldn’t tell; after all, Peter couldn’t seem to decide how he felt about Bucky. “I think she just wants to know _why_ you’re asking,” he amended despite knowing that that was very much _not_ what she meant. Briefly, he debated crushing his earpiece just so that she couldn’t correct him.

“Oh.” Peter gave him a weird look but otherwise didn’t question it. “Just—well, before you left, your mission was to kill the guy, right? But you obviously didn’t. My tutor said once that love is dangerous because it makes people do irrational things they normally wouldn’t, and _Hydra’s greatest asset_ ,” he put mocking emphasis on the words, “leaving in the middle of a job isn’t all that rational.”

After a moment of thought, Bucky settled on, “He’s an old friend of mine, yes.” Peter nodded slowly and softly as he processed this new fact, and it made the man more than a little curious. “How much do you know about me?”

The kid shrugged. “Not much, apparently. The whole Fist of Hydra, emotionless killing machine stuff, and that they kept you on ice for long periods of time. The trigger words, your memories being wiped. Nothing about,” he made a vague gesture, “ _this_ though. What kind of a name is Bucky?”

“It’s a nickname. My actual first name is James.”

That only confused Peter more. The way he squinted slightly and scrunched up his nose made him look like a normal teenager. “How do you get Bucky from James?”

Bucky almost smiled at that. “It’s from Buchanan, my middle name.” As for who in particular came up with it, he couldn’t recall; his memories were still fuzzy. The kid gave him a blank look as though to ask what the hell a middle name was, to which Bucky snorted. “How old are you?”

Peter sighed— _back to this, huh,_ written on his face. “Fifteen. Have you ever seen the ocean?”

Apparently, satisfying his own curiosity became this kid’s incentive to answer Bucky’s questions, and the man wondered how different he actually was in comparison to what Peter expected. He seemed to know and understand Fury and the Avengers well enough to brush them off. Perhaps he assumed this would be his only chance to find out more about the Winter Soldier. For all either of them knew, it would be. “Once or twice, yeah.”

“Is it pretty?”

“Like ripples of blue as far as you can see.” For a moment, Bucky considered returning the question, but it’d probably be a waste—the answer seemed rather apparent. And there were more important things to be found out. “How did you get your powers?”

“Powers,” Peter repeated, snorting out a laugh. “That’s not the word I’d use. Anyway—I still don’t feel like telling you.” Bucky figured that the _how_ of his abilities would make the _what_ clearer, which the kid likely wanted to avoid. It’d make him easier to contain, and despite his surrender and lack of self-preservation, it appeared he wanted to keep his options open. Just when Bucky opened his mouth, the kid cut him off. “You know, I feel like I should hate you.”

His voice was soft, thoughtful, and Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That right? Why’s that?”

Fiddling with the edge of the metal table, the kid shrugged. “Just—no one really thought it was necessary to teach me how to deal with emotions—another thing that’s for the weak—and… it was easier just to ignore them. Flip the switch off. Survive and not think about it. I guess that made me a good tool for awhile. All it—all it took was five stupid words to flip it back.” He lifted his arms like he wanted to make a grand gesture, only to settle for wiggling his fingers. “’The Winter Soldier has left.’”

Never once did Bucky spend more than a minute or two contemplating how his defection affected those left at Hydra; after all, the only people he’d known were people he couldn’t care less about, so the less he thought about them, the better. If harm came to them because of his decision, good. He kept his expression carefully neutral as he waited for the kid to continue.

“Made everything harder. I mean, aside from the whole matter of rebuilding from the big dent Captain America put in Hydra. All the bad emotions, and then good ones too, but those ended up being worse. It’s—well, I’m sure you can guess.”

Right. Hope.

 _“This might be a bad time,”_ Tony’s voice interrupted before Bucky could respond, _“but you need to get out. There are some SHIELD agents on their way and I need to reboot the security system.”_

For the briefest moment, Peter looked around frantically before forcing himself to calm down. Bucky offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Guess that’s my cue. See you around, kid.”

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed thickly, nodding. With a soft sigh, Bucky stood and made his way to the door, and just before he could leave, the kid piped up once more—this time, he spoke in Russian.

Bucky closed the door behind him with a soft smile.

***

The SHIELD agents stayed in the room for around four hours, but despite their best attempts, Peter gave no response, simply staring straight ahead with a neutral expression. Fury only managed to dismiss Tony by insisting that the kid needed an actual room—or cell, rather—to stay in for the time being. It might be days or weeks until the government insisted on taking custody of him.

Steve would come to find all of this out later because SHIELD didn’t want the Avengers present at their interrogation. To pass the time, he went on a run around the Compound, pushing himself harder than he usually did. More laps—more thoughts to push to the back of his mind. After awhile, he received a call from Tony informing him that it’d be his job to escort the kid to his room later. Given the lack of exact time offered, he figured he should be ready at any moment.

Which meant taking a shower. He allowed muscle memory to guide him, but apparently, he shouldn’t have trusted his feet; his subconscious must have influenced his path a little too much, he realized upon finding himself at the door to Bucky’s room. For a moment, he hesitated before deciding _to hell with it_ and opening the door.

Bucky, who’d been lying still on his bed staring at the ceiling, looked up at the intrusion, took in his appearance, and raised an eyebrow. “Y’know, the rule is that if you come in here to use my shower, I get to join you.”

Since reuniting and going through the process of getting to know each other again, Steve wasn’t sure where exactly they stood with each other, and though sometimes tempted to test the boundaries, he held back. Bucky was still recovering—still would be for a long time, possibly for the rest of his life—and Steve didn’t want to push anything onto him. Usually, he didn’t dwell on the matter; Peter’s question, however, kept nagging at him.

“Ah, well…” Lowering his gaze, Steve waved one hand in a non-committal gesture. Comments like that didn’t help much either, but Bucky referring to him as a unique brand of torture earlier left him inclined to believe that it was mere jest—the playful tone supported that conclusion. He cleared his throat softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Bucky sat up with a sigh, and really, he could’ve sounded worse—but he didn’t quite sound _fine_. “I just keep thinking about the kid,” he admitted. “You know, I’m pretty sure that’s the first time someone’s chosen to eat my cooking over yours.” He squinted a little in the way that meant he was questioning his memories, then glanced back at his friend. Specifically at his sweat-stained t-shirt and damp hair. “You’ve looked better.”

Steve smiled as he entered the room fully and closed the door behind him. “Yeah. Thinking about the kid.” If they couldn’t get anything useful out of him, the government would insist on taking him, whether to interrogate him more or lock him up—likely both. And at this point, the soldier didn’t know whether or not he could trust them to do it humanely. He supposed it depended on who was put in charge of him. “I’m on transport duty when Tony finishes his room.” He sighed. “And when SHIELD finishes their interrogation.”

Thoughtfully, Bucky nodded. “I hope he decides to help himself,” he said, his tone distant. “He’s a good kid. Deserves better than all this.”

“Even if he doesn’t want to help himself,” Steve considered, “maybe he’ll decide that he wants to help us. Either way would yield the same result, wouldn’t it?”

“What if he doesn’t even know anything useful?”

That might put a dent in their case for a pardon—unless the government decided to take pity on the kid and give it out for free. But they may also interpret it as a lack of cooperation, which seemed more likely. “We’ll figure something out.”

“You should probably take that shower. Wouldn’t want to offend the kid with your stench.”

Right, right. Steve rolled his eyes as he made his way towards the bathroom, stealing a long-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans to change into after. Fortunate that he and Bucky were around the same size now. Stopping in the doorway, he mustered up the courage to glance back and ask, lightly as he could manage, “Will you be joining me?”

Bucky met his gaze before looking down at the bedsheets, and when he looked back up, a slow, almost apologetic smile stretched across his lips. “It’d be a long shower.”

His cheeks warming up, Steve nodded. He needed to be ready for the kid. After a quick shower, he changed and sighed when, as if on cue, FRIDAY informed him that Peter was ready to be moved. Tony mentioned that in such a short period of time, he might not be able to build a room that would contain the kid if he decided to break out—not without completely restraining him, at least. Which meant that they had to keep their guard up.

On his way down, Steve received a remote that let him control the kid’s cuffs—and grabbed a belt because his narrower hips meant Bucky’s jeans were a little loose around his waist. When he entered the interrogation room, Peter’s legs were bound once more to the chair as they were supposed to be, and his arms and head were resting on the table. The kid looked at him, though he didn’t perk up the way he did earlier.

“Hey,” Steve greeted as he stepped closer, pressing a button on the remote to release Peter’s ankles from the chair and watching as the kid proceeded to shuffle them curiously. “I’m here to take you to an actual room.”

Nodding, the kid stood up and walked over to him, and Steve kept a firm hand on his shoulder as he led the way towards the room, opening it with the thumbprint scanner once they arrived. It was fairly simple—a bed and dresser bolted to the floor, a soft carpet, neutral colors, and a door leading to the bathroom. Peter’s wrist cuffs came apart when the door closed, but he didn’t seem to notice as he glanced around the room, far more subdued than before.

Steve wondered if Peter was feeling down because of the SHIELD interrogation, his chat with Bucky, or a combination of both, though he didn’t ask. “Why don’t you take a shower and change clothes? I’ll have food for you afterwards. Here.” He showed the kid into the bathroom, where a change of clothes—which he hadn’t seen until then—sat ready on the counter. As Peter studied the soft grey sweater and Captain America pajama pants, the soldier snorted softly. “I can grab something else for you.”

Peter shrugged, setting the clothes back down before moving to turn on the shower. It took a bit of fiddling—not everyone was used to Tony’s extravagant appliances—but he figured it out quicker than Steve did the first time. When the kid started undressing, the soldier excused himself to the main room—though Peter’s confused glance suggested that he wasn’t used to such privacy.

A few minutes later, Clint came by to drop off a plate of food—eggs and bacon, standard breakfast foods despite the late hour—and Steve heard the shower shut off a couple minutes after that. When Peter came out of the bathroom, he was tying the drawstring on his pants due to the fact that they were at least two sizes too big; the soldier noted how they almost swallowed his feet, and the sweater did the same to his hands. While his clothes now hid the cuffs, Steve could still see the faint outlines through the fabric.

Wordlessly because the kid didn’t seem to be in a talking mood, Steve held out the plate for him to take, leaning back against the dresser as Peter sat on the bed and contemplated his food. He took the first bite, only to—gag? Dropping his fork, the kid held his hand over his nose and mouth, bent over the plate, and tried not to cough. Concerned, Steve swiftly moved to sit next to him, a hand placed on his shoulder. “Is it that bad?”

The kid couldn’t seem to decide between nodding, shrugging, and shaking his head before he forced himself to chew and swallow. “It’s,” he croaked, muffled by his sweater sleeve, “a lot.”

Confused for just a moment, the soldier quickly recalled the earlier slight to Hydra’s food; Peter must not be used to eating anything with flavor, then. “I’ll make sure your food is blander next time,” he promised.

A hardly audible snort escaped the kid. It was then that he seemed to notice the hand on his shoulder for the first time, but though he stiffened slightly and gave it a wary glance, he didn’t make any move to shrug it off. Before Steve could put much thought into whether or not he should move, Peter cleared his throat, lowering his hand to pick up his fork. “Why, um—why would Hydra make the Winter Soldier try and kill you if you’re friends? That just sounds… kind of counterproductive.”

“Maybe they were overconfident in their brainwashing.” Steve gave the kid’s shoulder a gentle pat before returning his hand to his own lap. As he listened, Peter continued eating, and despite grimacing at each bite, he didn’t complain. “It’d also been a few decades. Maybe as different—handlers, as you call them, were put in charge, they forgot who he originally was too. Either way, I’m just happy that he’s alive and doing better now.”

Peter, who’d finished his food as quick as possible, nodded as he stared down at the empty plate. “I think you’ve probably noticed this, but memories come back quicker when they have a strong connection to a trigger. I… figured that out before ever getting put in the chair myself, so I created associations to facts that I wanted to remember. My name—stuff like that. I picked something that I’d most likely do even after my head got scrambled, so since I like counting things, I picked numbers to represent facts. It wasn’t perfect and I think I still forgot a lot of stuff, but it worked… well enough.”

“You’re a clever kid,” the soldier noted.

“Yeah, well, I wish I wasn’t.” Peter shook his head with a sigh. “I mean, I remember enough to know that there’s no one to miss me and nothing for me to go back to even if I do make it out of this. It just… hurts more.”

In a roundabout way, Steve could understand that. Waking up after sixty-five years in the ice, finding out the world had changed, that most of the people he knew were gone—it was isolating, the feeling of being lost and alone. He nodded and chose his next words carefully. “Even if you have nothing to go back to, you can always build something new.”

The kid stayed silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was far softer. “I didn’t have enough stuff in my room to count, so I gave myself scars to count instead.” Steve frowned but held his tongue. “They… went away when the—the accident happened. I guess I should have been relieved in a way, but even though it hurt, I still wanted to remember.”

“What all do you want to remember, Peter?” Steve asked after a moment of silence. He knew that Tony already started searching for the kid’s identity based on what he told Bucky, but that wasn’t much; any new information would be a huge help in narrowing it down. That, and it might help set Peter’s mind at ease. “I can write it down for you.”

Moving the plate to his side, Peter turned his attention to his pajama pants, fiddling with the fabric and tracing his fingers along it as though trying to memorize the patterns. “These are soft,” he noted absentmindedly. “I pet a dog once when I was eight. She was really soft too. Everything at the base was always hard and rough, so it was nice to feel something different.”

Steve never knew Hydra to be fond of animals, though maybe Peter was talking about some sort of working dog—even if that still sounded like a stretch. But he received an answer to his unasked question soon enough.

“She belonged to a hiker that wandered too close to the base, and they threw her into my cell as they took care of them. I heard him screaming, then just silence. His life wasn’t worth a single bullet. The dog was scared and tried to go after him—she scratched me when I tried to tell her to stay quiet. That it would hurt less that way. A minute later, my handler came back and handed me a bloody knife. Said that they couldn’t let the dog go because she might lead someone back to the base. That I had to take care of it.”

Peter didn’t need to finish the story: his solemn tone said it all. The soldier pressed his lips into a tight line, doing his best to ignore the anger that burned in his chest. To force a mere child to do something so inhumane—Hydra always managed to hit new lows, didn’t they? “It’s not your fault,” he told the kid, firm and unwavering. “They made you do it. It wasn’t your choice.”

“I chose to live.” Peter met his gaze with a bitter smile. “I never had codewords that turned me into an emotionless killing machine, or—or anything like that. It was my choice to stay alive, and that meant…” Trailing off, he bit his lip and looked at his hands.

“That doesn’t mean you were in control of your actions. Codewords or not, Hydra was still manipulating you.” And they still were, really. Whatever they taught him was so ingrained that even though he had the chance to open up and help stop them, he couldn’t bring himself to. Whether they convinced him that he didn’t deserve help or that Hydra was simply indestructible or both, it didn’t matter. Steve’s determination never faltered. “But you have a choice now. A _real_ choice.”

Almost imperceptibly, the kid’s smile softened. “August,” he said, making eye contact once more. “I was born in August. And, um, as far as I’m aware, I’m the only enhanced that Hydra has left. They may not let me go that easily.”

“We can protect you,” Steve told him.

***

“We are not letting him escape,” Fury told Tony, scoffing at the idea.

And yeah, maybe his phrasing wasn’t exactly what he meant, but in the billionaire’s defense, he hadn’t slept in awhile; between tracking down any possible leads on Hydra bases and the kid’s identity, he’d been rather busy since they got back from the raid—even though he usually stepped back at this point and focused on his usual business. “We need time that Ross won’t give us,” he insisted. “You saw how well SHIELD’s interrogation went. If they take over, there’s no way the kid’s ever going to talk.”

“Then what exactly do you propose we do?” Fury raised an eyebrow as he watched Tony pace back and forth in the private room. Given their sensitive conversation, they made sure to find somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard, then had FRIDAY check for any listening devices and double check about five times.

“It only took Barnes about ten minutes to get his name and age. Rogers and Romanoff got some information about his abilities and Hydra’s experiments.” As much as Tony didn’t like the guy, he had to admit that his presence was useful in this particular case, and if it meant helping the kid, he’d gladly use that to their advantage. “That’s way better than four hours for a whole lot of nothing. Peter might talk if he trusts who he’s talking to, but you heard him earlier. There’s no way he’ll ever trust SHIELD.”

Tony could see on Fury’s face how the director reluctantly conceded to that fact—no matter how carefully schooled his expression was. But he still brought up an excellent counterpoint. “We don’t know if he even has information that’d be worth taking the risk,” he said. “You’re talking about breaking a Hydra agent out of federal custody. If it fails, your whole team will go down hard.”

As much as he hated to admit it, the billionaire had no guarantee that it’d work out, and he didn’t want to risk the team again on a mere hunch; after all, they’d only known this kid for twenty-four hours, and they certainly didn’t know enough to make an informed decision. Not at the moment, anyway. “If we find out that he does have that sort of intel, can we count on you for backup?”

After all that happened between Hydra and SHIELD, Fury’s determination to take down Hydra once and for all was surpassed only by Steve Rogers himself. If Peter turned out to be the key to the organization’s downfall, Tony knew that Fury would take the chance—so the director’s nod didn’t surprise him.

FRIDAY’s voice, on the other hand, did. **“Boss, General Ross is here and requesting your presence.”**

And _that_ —that was the last thing Tony wanted to hear at the moment. He groaned, and for a moment, he considered making up some excuse for why he couldn’t see Ross until he realized that the kid would likely be worse off for it; as such, he reluctantly bid Fury farewell and made his way down to greet Ross. Melodramatically, he deemed the walk the worst several minutes of his life. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked upon arriving.

“Stark,” the general returned. Behind him stood two agents with neutral expressions, one of whom held a briefcase that Tony decided he didn’t like despite how normal it looked. “Show me this kid you found.”

 _No._ The billionaire sighed, rubbing his temple. “Why do you want to see him?”

Ross smiled condescendingly. “I’m not here to take him—not at the moment, anyway. Unless you’d rather I take him off your hands now.” When Tony shook his head, he continued. “Show me where you’re keeping him.”

If Tony thought he could protest this without losing the kid, he would’ve; however, they were on borrowed time as it stood, and a quick visit couldn’t hurt that much. Well, he could hope it was only a quick check-in, anyway. “Fine. He’s this way.”

Down a few floors and nestled in a seldom-used hallway, it seemed like an ideal location—and it didn’t take too much remodeling. As they walked, Ross asked more questions, his agents trailing close behind him. “Have you gotten any useful information yet?” Rhetorical, really, given that the man had already seen their interrogations. The authorized ones, at least.

“We’re working on that.” He’d sent Steve to escort the kid largely in the hopes of Peter opening up to him more, though he’d yet to hear the results of that. Last he knew, he and the kid were still hanging out.

“If you can’t get anything out of him, I have other agents who can.”

The billionaire snorted. “Like those guys from earlier? I heard they couldn’t even get him to twitch.”

“There are other methods to use if the usual ones fail.”

Just barely, Tony kept his normal pace despite the temptation to throw his arms out and turn on the general. “He’s a kid,” he retorted instead.

“He’s a weapon,” Ross countered, “or did he not make that clear enough when he punched you across a room?”

Which was _apparently_ something he’d never live down. “He’s shown no signs of aggression since then. In fact, he’s been rather… calm.” Cooperative, as much as Tony would’ve preferred to say it, wasn’t quite the right word. Someone cooperative would be giving them information, after all, and he didn’t want to be called out on his mistake.

Ross snorted. “A little too calm. We should be lighting a fire under him, not pampering him.”

The billionaire changed his mind: _these_ were the worst several minutes of his life. Scoffing, he repeated, “He’s a _kid_ , Ross. We don’t hurt _kids_.”

“You’re naïve. Just because he’s a kid doesn’t mean he’s not a killer. He’s a Hydra agent, Stark. If you let your guard down, you lose, and that may mean losing everything.”

All too soon, the door to the kid’s room came into view, and Ross stopped in front of it as he waited for the billionaire to unlock it. Tony hoped his silent apology was apparent on his face as he opened the door to see Peter and Steve sitting on the bed, about a foot and a half between them. “Ladies and gents, Thaddeus Ross,” Tony introduced with feigned enthusiasm. Neither of the room’s occupants looked overjoyed, but they had the decency to not openly express displeasure.

“Rogers,” Ross began without preamble, “roll up the kid’s sleeve and cuff him, if you would.”

Tony frowned while Steve hesitated, but ultimately, the soldier appeared to come to the same conclusion as the billionaire. Peter made eye contact with the general even as Steve reluctantly complied with the order, and once he finished, the agent with the briefcase stepped forward and set it on the bed next to the kid. “What, are we having show and tell time?” the billionaire asked with a scoff, frowning when he saw the almost medical-looking machine in the case.

“I’m just taking precautions that you evidently refuse to, Stark.” Ross shot him a look before returning his gaze to meet Peter’s once more. The agent picked up the device and opened it, then clamped it around the kid’s elbow, reporting that it was ready for use.

The kid didn’t flinch, and his gaze didn’t waver; instead, he merely smiled at the general. “You know, government torture sounds boring after everything my handlers did—well, it _sounded_ boring until now. I’m sure you can come up with something interesting, though. You have that look in your eye.” Upon activation, the machine injected something into his arm, but he didn’t even twitch. The agent placed the machine back in the briefcase; however, when she reached for a gauze pad, he said, “Don’t bother. It’ll heal.”

Blood trickled from the small cut left behind. Ross smiled, staring down his nose at the kid. “I look forward to spending some quality time with you later. At the moment, though, I have more important matters to attend to. Rogers, Stark.” With faked politesse, he gave each man a curt nod before he turned to leave the room, his agents in tow.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Tony called. Naturally, he hoped that it did. He scoffed when the door closed— _not_ doing the thing he wanted. Maybe he’d talk to FRIDAY about that later. “Good riddance.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at him. Once Steve released his cuffs, the kid rolled down his sleeve and poked at the wound, which caused the blood to soak through the fabric. “I’ve heard that he’s a pain in the ass,” he commented.

Yeah, no kidding. Tony felt oddly vindicated that even this sheltered kid knew that. “Cap doesn’t like that sort of language, you know.”

Steve rolled his eyes, but rather than argue, he posed a simple question. “What did they just inject him with?”

“FRIDAY, can you tell?”

 **“It appears to be a tracking device,”** the AI answered after a moment, **“implanted deep into his tissue.”**

Peter looked up at the ceiling, glancing around it as he attempted to pinpoint the source of the voice, but he soon turned his attention back to Tony. “Was there not a tracking device in the cuffs already?”

“Well… no.” Tony shrugged. In his defense, it wasn’t the final design; he’d been focusing more on making them strong before moving onto smaller details. Ross must have looked up the schematics—to spite him if nothing else. “I hadn’t gotten to that part yet. Anyway,” he gestured vaguely, “what have you two been up to?”

Returning the shrug, Peter reported, “Cap was just giving me a pep talk.”

“So, any burning thoughts you want to get off your chest?”

“No.” He picked up the plate beside him and held it out for the billionaire to take. Tony merely quirked an eyebrow at it, and Steve reached out to grab it instead. “You look smaller without your suit.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no kidding. It’s not like it’s a huge chunk of metal covering my body or anything.” He glanced at Steve, who offered a tiny smile that the billionaire hoped meant Peter opened up more. “I’m still not as small as you, kid.”

“That’s fair.”

“You’re probably tired,” Steve cut in, reaching out to pat the kid’s shoulder before standing up. “We’ll let you get some rest.”

“If you need us, just say, ‘FRIDAY, call whoever,’” Tony advised with a gesture towards the ceiling. “She’s programmed to not respond to you, but she will tell us that you requested our attention. Sound good?”

Peter nodded as the two men headed to the door. “Bye.”

Steve and Tony bid him farewell, then waited until they were decently far from the room before they began talking again. “His birthday’s in August,” Steve informed him, then continued to fill him in on the gist of the conversation since the security in his room wasn’t designed to record audio—merely keep an eye on the kid. At least not constantly, though there were exceptions for interrogations or if Peter said anything of concern.

“That’s… heavy.” Emotions had never been Tony’s strong point; he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to listen to all of _that_ and still be able to formulate words, and he begrudgingly respected the soldier for his ability not to waver in the face of such topics—Hydra’s cruelty, the kid mutilating himself, any of it. The billionaire might’ve made things worse by resorting to jokes instead. “It should help narrow things down, though. And who knows? Maybe he does have a family that he just doesn’t remember.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

With that, the two parted ways. While the soldier fully intended to get a good night’s rest, he had the sneaking suspicion that Tony would be staying up for awhile longer.

***

“I could just steal the kid.”

Steve woke up to a single knock at his door, shortly followed by Bucky letting himself in and making himself comfortable on the bed, sitting on the edge by the soldier’s feet. Yawning, Steve stretched and sat up against the headboard. “You can’t just steal the kid,” he chided half-heartedly.

“I could,” his friend insisted. “I could be in and out before anyone realizes what’s happening, and I have plenty of experience in laying low. Maybe we could find some small ocean-side town to stay in. You can come visit every now and then.” Steve quirked a dubious eyebrow. While he didn’t doubt Bucky’s skills, he had a hunch that he was just talking. As expected, Bucky sighed. “Well, the kid wouldn’t be too happy with that plan.”

Given Peter’s lack of self-preservation, Steve didn’t think the kid would approve of someone else becoming a fugitive on his behalf, though based on Bucky’s tone, he wondered if there might be something deeper to the comment. He thought back on the conversation between the two of them. “What did Peter say to you?” he asked, recalling the comment in Russian.

A smile, somewhat wistful, pulled at Bucky’s lips. “That he’s happy for me.”

And that made perfect sense: if Peter was happy that Bucky escaped Hydra and now appeared to have a stable life in recovery, no wonder Bucky didn’t give too much consideration into a plan that jeopardized that. After all, the kid already had more than enough to be unhappy about. But, well, how was Bucky supposed to hear that and _not_ want the same for Peter? “We’ll figure something out,” the soldier murmured, more to himself than anything. “There has to be something we can do for him.”

“We could steal him,” Bucky proposed once more. “Stark has some crazy idea in his head that he’s trying to convince Fury to go along with. It involves stealing Peter from the government.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “At least it’s nice to know that we can agree on something.”

It wasn’t like Tony and Bucky to talk to each other, let alone without anyone forcing them to, and Steve wondered if they just happened to cross paths and realize they had similar ideas. But of all the things for them to agree on, _of course_ it was kidnapping. “We’d need a more detailed plan.” Given that Ross would be put in charge of the kid if they didn’t intervene, Steve couldn’t bring himself to disagree with the notion. Torture aside, the general may decide to use Peter as a lab rat. “Something he can back out of if he doesn’t want to go with us.”

“Right, so no forcible kidnapping.”

 **“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,”** FRIDAY’s voice greeted them, **“the boss requests your presence in the common room.”**

Steve wondered what other crazy thing he was about to hear. The two made their way down to join the rest of the team, and once everyone was gathered, Tony clapped his hands together and gestured for everyone to pay attention to him as though they weren’t already. Once satisfied, he brought up a hologram from his watch and threw it to the television—a file for a missing boy. “I found him,” he announced. “Recognize those Bambi brown eyes? Peter Parker, fifteen, went missing when he was seven. His parents died in a plane crash when he was four, he lived with his aunt and uncle for a couple years, but they were killed in a shooting when he was six. No other living relatives. The foster home he was sent to was negligent at best. It took them a week and a call from his school to notice he was missing.”

While Steve had been holding out hope that the kid was mistaken, it seemed like he truly did have nothing to go back to. Orphaned twice, neglected, and kidnapped by Hydra—all in just seven years. What a life. He understood the kid’s cynicism a little better now.

“Does that say his parents are Mary and Richard Parker?” Natasha asked, leaning forward in her seat and gesturing towards the screen. As attention shifted to her, she continued. “They were SHIELD agents. I worked with them a few times, but I didn’t know they had a son.”

“Well, if nepotism,” Tony spared a glance at Bucky, who met his gaze evenly, “is how we secure pardons, that should help our case.”

In theory, the kid’s parentage didn’t mean much due to the fact that he likely didn’t remember them at all; however, some might see it as a reason for him to be more open towards shifting his loyalties. Steve figured it was at least useful information either way. “Are we going to tell him?” After a moment, he added, “Does SHIELD know?”

Tony snorted. “SHIELD—aside from Fury—doesn’t know the first thing about the kid because we found that out thanks to Barnes. As for Peter… I’m open to suggestions.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “He seems to remember enough that this won’t come as a shock to him,” he considered, “and if we hold out on telling him, we may be getting his hopes up for nothing.”

“If he even thinks we’re looking,” Clint said—a fair point. Since Peter didn’t seem to hold himself in high regard, he might assume other people didn’t care enough to seek out more information about him.

“It could either bring him further to our side or push him away from us.” Natasha skimmed the file once, twice over. “At this point, we don’t know him well enough to guess.”

“Okay. It won’t hurt to wait a little longer, will it?” Tony glanced around at everyone as an invitation for more input, but when no one spoke up, he gave a firm nod. “Alright then, moving on. Ross gave us three days until he takes the kid, but Fury and I might be making a plan to fix that issue. It depends on whether or not Peter—well, if he knows enough to risk it.”

“Risk what?” Rhodey inquired, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Tony clapped his hands together once more. “If anyone wants to be able to claim plausible deniability, now’s your chance to leave. Otherwise, you’re all accomplices.” No one stood. A few looked around the room to see the others’ reactions. “Alright, full ride-or-die—good to know, I like that. The plan may or may not involve kidnapping.”

“Not by force,” Steve supplied when the phrasing appeared to rub a few people the wrong way. “He’ll have a choice, of course.”

“I see Barnes already filled you in. Like the Capsicle said, it’ll be his decision whether or not he follows through with the plan, but we’ll set everything up for him. Take him to a safehouse—or something. Haven’t quite finalized that yet.”

Rhodey watched him for a long moment. “I hate to play devil’s advocate, Tones, but what if he just takes the chance to escape? And unless we plan to make it obvious that we’re the ones facilitating his escape, then there’ll have to be some distance between us. The second he’s out of custody—which they’ll know thanks to that chip in his arm—they’ll be all over him.”

“These are all good points.” Tony snapped and pointed at him. “And we have three days to figure all of this out. Good talk, team. Romanoff, you’re on breakfast duty. Make it bland.”

***

Natasha entered the cell to see the kid sound asleep under the covers, but—having learned from Tony’s mistakes—she didn’t approach him, instead setting the plate of toast on the dresser and drumming her fingers against the wood. “I heard you had a fun time with the general himself last night.”

Peter lifted his head and rolled over to face her. “I wouldn’t call it fun,” he mumbled. “From everything I’ve heard, there’s only one good thing about that guy.” Getting to his feet, he walked over to grab his breakfast before returning to sit on his bed. Apparently, toast was a satisfactory choice since he didn’t gag upon taking the first bite.

“I didn’t know there was even one,” she jested.

Snorting out a laugh, the kid finished off his breakfast in record time. “Well, he’s not Hydra. That makes him better than most people I know.”

Whether he meant the comment to slip or not, Natasha couldn’t quite tell; it did, however, seem to hint at deeper knowledge that he could declare someone _not Hydra_ so definitively—and he _did_ mention being able to hear people talk on different floors of the base. She’d make note of that to tell Fury. “Sounds like a low bar to jump.” She offered a smile in return.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Once his plate was empty, he gave her his undivided attention. “Is this an interrogation?”

“No, I was just dropping off your breakfast and checking in. Do you need anything?”

Peter shook his head as she took his plate. “No, I’m fine, thank you. I feel like I’m on… what is it called? That nice break thing?”

“Vacation,” she supplied.

“Yes. That. I noticed that Mr. Stark also bought me twelve pairs of Iron Man pants. To match these,” he picked at his Captain America ones, “I’m guessing.”

“That does sound like Stark. If that’s all, I’ll be on my way.”

“Okay.” The kid waved. “Bye.”

“I’ll see you later, Peter.”

***

“So he can identify Hydra personnel,” Tony concluded, dramatically shutting an empty folder and dropping it on the table. “Maybe enough to give us a good head start.” Natasha and Fury watched him as he strutted around the empty conference room, overly pleased with this discovery. “Alright, Slick Rick, time for us to make a solid plan. Any ideas?”

Fury raised an eyebrow, scoffing. “I already have a plan, Stark. What’ve you been doing?”


	3. humanizing.

Peter received an extra present with his dinner—a note taped to the bottom of the plate. Discreetly, he slipped it into his pocket and read it in the bathroom later, and then… Well, someone might find it if he tried throwing it away, and since he suspected he’d get in trouble if he tried setting it on fire, he made the impromptu decision to eat it. It tasted better than what he was used to eating. Worse than his actual dinner that night, though.

An escape plan, huh? Either this was a test or the Avengers were crazier than he anticipated, neither of which came as a comfort. He could only imagine the sort of trouble they’d get in if they actually went through with setting this up, and how did they figure that it might be worth it? Sure, he—well, none of that mattered. Rotting in a SHIELD prison cell sounded far better than going back to Hydra; even if he ended up being tortured or experimented on, he wouldn’t be forced to kill anyone else.

Then again, if he did tell the Avengers what they wanted to know—all they wanted was information, he reminded himself over and over—Hydra might send assassins for him. That might make it worth it. But they could also just resort to one of their more severe punishments, and he didn’t want that. And whether or not the heroes intended to follow through on their talk of protecting him remained to be seen—and they might get hurt if they did. The uncertainty of it all made it difficult for him to decide.

What would have the best outcome? The worst? Was there even a difference between the two? Peter knew he didn’t deserve the best, but he also didn’t want to deal with the worst—a catch twenty-two, as the saying went.

One thing he did know, however, was that he had no intention of going along with this ridiculous escape plan. Not a chance. He shouldn’t even be considering the possibility; however, it seemed the Avengers got into his head too much over the past couple days. No, he absolutely could not entertain this farcical idea. He didn’t want anything to do with any of it. Though that didn’t stop him from carefully memorizing the note before disposing of it.

***

For the next couple days, he didn’t talk to the Avengers when they came by to drop off food or ask him questions. He knew thanks to the note and Tony’s big mouth that Ross would be taking custody of him soon, and he’d rather just get everything over with. The sooner he could push the thoughts of escaping out of his mind, the better. It was better not to get his hopes up in the first place than to have someone else crush them, after all.

No way in hell would going along with their plan benefit him.

Soon enough, some agents he didn’t recognize came to collect him, and he offered no resistance as they led him to an armored transport truck. While two stepped forward to open the doors and prepare the interior, one of the two behind him leaned down just enough to whisper something only he could hear: “Hail Hydra.”

His blood chilled—right, yes, he suspected this might happen, but a weaker part of him hoped that it wouldn’t—but he forced himself not to outwardly react as he was loaded into the van. They trained him well in that regard, and if it was going to happen, it might as well happen. It might hurt less to go along with it willingly. But really, he knew the punishment for letting himself get taken in the first place would be severe.

The Hydra agent sat next to him, and once the others settled down, she discreetly injected something into his leg. He knew enough to know the general plan: kill the SHIELD agents, signal another team, attack the truck, take the kid. Oh, and sedate him to make sure he couldn’t resist or try to protect the agents because they knew how he hated collateral damage. But his attempts to protect—to help—anyone never worked out, nor did anyone’s attempts to protect _him_.

Peter leaned his head back against the seat as dark spots swam in his vision. _Dammit. This wasn’t what he wanted._

***

“Any updates?” Clint drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the van, a little impatient when there’d been no news. According to the plan Fury set up, there should be movement by now, but so far, they’d heard nothing but Tony complain about Ross telling him to kindly stay out of government business. Bucky sat in the backseat diagonal from him, while Steve and Sam stood outside and kept an eye out. They waited in an abandoned parking garage—right under the sign marking section C-6. With luck, the kid would find amusement in that.

Tony sighed heavily, his voice coming through the car’s speakers. _“Nope. The transmission from his tracker still lines up perfectly with the decoy signal, and the transport van is moving on schedule. Fury’s still off pretending to be helpful.”_

Pursing his lips, Steve glanced back. While he didn’t want to think that Peter had no intention of going along with this plan, it seemed likely; after all, perhaps as a means of expressing his displeasure, he went silent after receiving the note despite the soldier’s attempts at speaking with him. He appeared more solemn—resigned—than anything, and Steve suspected that the kid lacked the will to make a move.

The warning that Hydra might come after Peter concerned him as well. If _they_ made a move, it would surely be while the kid’s in transit given the inherent vulnerability. Ross originally wanted Peter to be transported via helicopter, but Fury managed to pull a few strings and secure a modified truck—one with a trap door covered by a thin metal sheet—instead; however, the director might not have been the only one pushing for that change of plan. A truck would be easier for Hydra to take the kid from as well.

Steve itched to be there at his side to protect him, but he knew the plan—knew he couldn’t be in two places at once. If Hydra made a move, he trusted Tony to step in despite SHIELD’s attempts to keep him out. That didn’t mean he liked waiting.

Based on Clint and Sam’s expressions, they didn’t share the soldier’s steadfast hope. Bucky was a little harder to read, chin in his hand and elbow propped against the car door as he stared off in thought; if Steve didn’t know better, he might think his friend was zoning out, but he knew Bucky listened intently to everything around him. Whether it was hope, paranoia, or a combination of both remained to be seen.

 _He’ll come._ Steve told himself that but didn’t voice the hope, as though giving it life would destroy the illusion. There was, after all, no guarantee of that.

“How long are we going to wait?” Sam asked, turning his attention to Steve. “Until he’s arrived at the SHIELD facility?”

“If necessary.” Steve observed their surroundings, but same as the last twenty times, there was no sign of movement anywhere in the decrepit—soon to be torn down—building. A couple cars, equally abandoned, were scattered throughout the level. On the bright side, there was no one around to watch them.

***

The back of his neck prickled. Peter’s eyes rolled around like he meant to take in his surroundings, but they remained covered by his eyelids—heavy, too heavy, as though someone poured concrete over them. That, he didn’t mind so much. But the tingling became worse, and he wanted it to stop. All he wanted was to go back to sleep, get some much-needed rest, but _that sensation_ kept him from it. And dammit, he wanted it to _stop_.

So he acted on pure instinct.

In one swift motion, he sent an elbow flying towards the source of danger and felt something—a bone, most likely—break under the pressure. Unfortunately, the action only made the sensation worse, alarming enough to snap him out of his groggy state. Seeing guns pointed at him and agents yelling, he considered his options, and one stuck out above all else.

Nick Fury’s escape plan. Damn it all to hell. He reached quickly—faster than the SHIELD agents reacted to—under his seat to grab the cannister that the man said would be there, only to clench his teeth at the feeling of cold metal entering and twisting in his side. _A knife._ Before the pain could hit, he pulled the pin out and held his breath as knock-out gas flooded the truck’s interior. The hand gripping the knife loosened and released it, and Peter made sure all the agents were passed out before grabbing the remote to his cuffs out of the pocket of the man mentioned in the note and releasing them. Once his proper range of motion was restored, he shook out his limbs.

Then, he had to move a few legs before he could lift the sheet of metal and open the trap door, climb out, and cling to the bottom of the truck. Kicking off his shoes, he lodged them into the underside’s mechanics, then his socks into them. He stuck his feet and left hand to pipes before looping his right arm around another one and pulling the knife out.

He wanted nothing more to be sick or pass out. Once the adrenaline from his sixth sense ebbed away, the fog threatened to overtake him once more—and the movement of the truck and how loud and smelly the city was and loosing blood didn’t help. A few deep breaths and he rolled up his left sleeve and brought the knife to his skin; with careful diligence, he focused on digging out the tracker without hitting any veins or arteries. Not easy, especially given his current state, but he managed.

After all, he’d done far, far worse. He brushed that thought aside. No need to dwell on it now.

Once it was out, he wedged it into some cranny and considered his next step. Somewhere—distantly—he thought he might remember something about traffic cameras being more concentrated around intersections, so he waited until the truck was past one and down a long stretch of road before inching to the edge, and once he saw his chance, he built up his momentum and jumped sideways to the bottom of another car, knife and remote secure in his pocket. Rode there for awhile, repeated the process a few times until, a good distance away from the truck’s path, he dropped to the concrete and slunk into an alley.

He pressed his right hand to his left elbow and his left arm against his side—an attempt to stem the flow of blood. The pain came in waves, but until that moment, he had something to concentrate on, to distract him. Now, he swallowed thickly to keep himself from throwing up. Spotting a vent on the side of a building, he climbed up to it and let himself inside, sprawling on his back and breathing heavily. Blood pooled around him.

And this was it: the end of the line. He just injured and ran away from a Hydra agent and from SHIELD, so now what? Surely neither would take it kindly if he tried turning himself in now, even if he tried explaining that the first part was an accident. Would SHIELD even believe him if he told them that she was part of Hydra? Now, he truly had nothing to go back to. A nobody who came from nothing, who belonged nowhere. How could he ever be anything else?

His hand moved to grip the handle of the knife. Well, if it came to this, he might as well take matters into his own hands. It’d be far easier—far less painful—than letting someone else find him and drag him in. To kill him, to torture him, whatever it was. He didn’t care anymore. At least with this, he would have some control over his fate.

_“You can always build something new.”_

Squeezing his eyes shut, he groaned at the words echoing in his head. _Go away,_ he willed as he swallowed thickly, his grip faltering. _Stupid Captain America._ Stupid foggy brain making him think of stupid things. None of what the Avengers said meant anything. Nothing about what seeing the Winter Soldier alive and well made him think or feel meant anything. It didn’t matter—not at all. They were just manipulating him too in the end, and he was so, so tired of it. He had a choice? What sort of choice did he have when he was following along with someone else’s plan? Why couldn’t anyone just be honest with him?

It didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He didn’t care. Not at all. Never had, never would. No. He didn’t care— _but…_

***

From making casual jokes and jabs in an effort to either pass time or lighten the mood, Tony’s voice abruptly shifted to one of urgency. _“What’s going on? What is everyone freaking out about?”_

“Stark, what’s happening?” Over the past several minutes, Steve took to tuning out the billionaire—something he had plenty of practice in by now—but now, he snapped to attention, ready to move if necessary.

 _“At ease, soldier, I’m working on it,”_ Tony snapped back before going quiet. Steve wondered who he was questioning or what he was hacking into to find out, but before he could question it much, Tony returned, tone grim. _“Hydra attacked the SHIELD truck. SHIELD took half of them out or into custody, but some of them got away. There’s no sign of Peter, but his tracker hasn’t shown any unusual movement. I’m sending out a suit to investigate.”_

No sign of Peter. Steve, suffice to say, didn’t like the sound of that, and he shifted his weight between his feet as he forced himself to stay put. Various scenarios flashed through his mind, many of them ending badly. Hydra could have ripped out his tracker before taking him—but that would take too much time, wouldn’t it? SHIELD would’ve been on them too soon, so a simple snatch-and-grab would be the best move when it came to breaking him out.

Perhaps Tony’s decoy signal didn’t go as planned despite his insistence that it’d fool everyone. Technology malfunctioned no matter who made it. The billionaire _had_ only spent two days working on the code, after all.

After several tense minutes—probably full of both investigating and arguing with Ross—Tony reported back. _“SHIELD thinks Hydra took him. I think the kid escaped. He used Fury’s plan, and his tracker and shoes were wedged into the bottom of the truck. It’d be an odd place for Hydra to leave those.”_ He sighed, and the soldier imagined him rubbing his temples. _“There was blood too. FRIDAY’s looking through camera footage to try and figure out where he went.”_

Sam raised his eyebrows. “His shoes?” And the tracker—didn’t Fury mention the decoy signal in his note?

“Do you want us to move?” At the same time, Clint shifted in his seat, tightened his grip on the wheel.

 _“No, stay there. Your location hasn’t been compromised, and the kid might be headed your way. I’m searching the streets just in case.”_ A pause. _“On the bright side, we can blame his escape on Hydra.”_

Yes, that did solve one issue. The biggest kink in the plan involved explaining how the kid acquired knock-out gas and the trap door, which certainly weren’t a common feature. Fury pulled strings to get everything in place, but even the best spies had trouble coming up with excuses for it. To the extent of Steve’s knowledge, he’d been planning to somehow remove the evidence or switch out trucks, but he didn’t know the specifics. And apparently, it didn’t matter now anyway.

Hydra made themselves useful for one thing and one thing only. Steve didn’t think he’d see the day when he felt some gratitude for their interference. That feeling didn’t last for long, unsurprisingly, quickly swallowed by his concern. “Did anyone get hurt?” he asked after a moment.

Tony took a moment to consider—or to ask Fury. _“One agent has a broken collarbone, but since all the agents in the truck were passed out, Hydra might’ve assumed they were dead and therefore not shot them. Other SHIELD agents showed up, there was a gun fight, one agent was minorly wounded. Some Hydra guys were killed. That’s all I know.”_

“I’m guessing the kid broke the agent’s collarbone,” Sam mused, leaning against the car, “but why? It seems unnecessary if he knew he had knock-out gas. And what’s with his _shoes_?”

 _“Who knows?”_ Tony snorted. _“With luck, we’ll get a chance to ask him.”_

Steve didn’t want to rely on luck, but he imagined that SHIELD and Hydra were both looking for the kid as well; with that in mind, it became increasingly difficult to stay still, and as he shifted, he almost missed the sympathetic look Bucky shot him. He only took solace in the fact that Tony could likely search faster and farther than both of the organizations combined—at least in one city.

The frustrated groan coming through the speakers did little to support that solace. _“FRIDAY hasn’t picked anything up on traffic cameras or SHIELD’s surveillance.”_

“He must be well-trained,” Bucky noted absentmindedly.

 _“Or roadkill. The truck’s been in traffic surrounded by fast cars for most of the trip. There’s not exactly a good point for him to have rolled out from under the thing. At the points where it would be safe for him to—nothing. Zip. Nada.”_ The billionaire sighed. _“I haven’t found a trace of him either.”_

Sam picked up the mantle of devil’s advocate. “He might’ve just taken the chance to run for it. Tricked us into thinking he wouldn’t, then went and did exactly that.”

“If he did, we’ll find him,” Steve insisted, pursing his lips. But he doubted it. Peter, while not quite cooperative, seemed fairly honest—something both he and Natasha agreed on. The kid would have to be a hell of a liar to fool both them _and_ FRIDAY’s biometric scans. Well, then again, Hydra agents would have to be fantastic liars in order to accomplish everything they had. Perhaps it was mere hope that Steve thought Peter was different, that the kid didn’t just lure them into a false sense of security. He could’ve been deliberate in the small details he let slip—just enough to convince them to risk _this_.

At the very least, waiting here like this made him understand the kid’s hatred of that emotion a little better. Relying only on hope when there was no certainty in a situation—he saw how that could be frustrating.

Every now and then, Tony updated the team with another dead end: no sign of Peter, no sign of the escaped Hydra agents, Ross being a pain in the neck. That last one was phrased a little differently. Steve kept a watchful eye out, same as he had been, though he noticed that Sam’s focus wavered as more time—a couple hours by then—passed. Just as he debated when would be a reasonable time to call it, something fell on top of the car.

He and Sam jumped back, ready to fight if necessary, but they relaxed upon seeing who it was: Peter. _Oh, thank God_. Though the kid landed somewhat gracefully, he slipped when he tried to get down, which left the soldier to catch him. The second thing Steve noticed was the dark red stains soaking through his sweater, originating from his left side and arm, and the third thing was how much heat his body radiated. “We need to go,” the kid mumbled into Steve’s chest.

“Kid, you’re hurt,” Sam started as he approached, reaching out a hand to steady him. “We need to look at—”

“No.” Swatting the hand away, Peter pulled back and leaned his weight against the car door instead before turning to clumsily open it and climb inside. The smear of blood his hands left behind made the black handle shinier. Based on the amount of blood staining his clothes, Steve doubted that anyone else would be moving right about then. “Let’s just go,” he whined.

But dammit, were they really going to go through all this effort just to let the kid bleed out? Steve exchanged a glance with Sam before they moved to their respective places, Sam in the passenger seat and Steve in the back with Peter and Bucky. Based on the dirty look Peter gave him, the soldier wouldn’t be surprised if the kid started growling. Like trying to take care of a wounded animal, he noted.

Whether he didn’t notice or just didn’t care, Peter’s efforts to scoot away from Steve led to him pressing up against Bucky’s side, and he grimaced when Tony began speaking. _“What happened? Is the kid okay?”_

“He’s hurt,” Sam reported.

At the exact same time, the kid insisted, “I’m fine.”

Clint, seemingly indifferent to the commotion, started driving and kept his eyes on the road; after all, someone needed to focus on the escape part of the plan. Meanwhile, Steve wasn’t exactly convinced by Peter’s statement. Cutting off whatever Tony was about to say, he spoke up. “Peter,” he softened his voice, but it didn’t keep the kid from glaring at him, “you’ve lost a lot of blood. We just want to help you.”

To his credit, the kid had his arms wrapped around himself to put pressure on the wound. “I don’t care. I don’t even wanna be here. You’re too…” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and curling in on himself. His head snapped back up when Bucky moved next to him. “Don’t—”

“Relax. I’m just putting your seatbelt on.” Though Peter huffed in response, he furrowed his brows—seeming to not quite understand the statement—and leaned back to allow Bucky to continue. He’d scooted far enough into Bucky’s space that the man’s hand didn’t brush his side as he clicked the belt into place. Once finished, Bucky glanced around at everyone else. “Can the rest of you calm down? You’re freaking him out.”

Steve sighed and Tony snorted indignantly, but the car quieted down after Bucky’s statement. As much as they wanted to help, scaring the kid was rather counterproductive—though that didn’t mean they could leave his injuries alone either. Or could they? Peter knew more about his healing factor than they did, so maybe he insisted he was fine because he knew he would be even without proper treatment. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if Peter figured that out from experience.

Pursing his lips, the soldier watched as Bucky spoke to the kid in quiet Russian, voice smooth and reassuring, and when Peter responded, he recognized the tone of reluctant acceptance as he relaxed a little against his side before whimpering out something else. Reluctantly, Bucky lifted his right hand to graze Peter’s cheek—Steve knew how much he hated touching people with it—and the kid, given how he proceeded to sigh and press his face against the man’s palm, seemed to be relieved by the feeling of cold metal against his skin.

 _“What just happened?”_ Tony asked after a moment, keeping his voice quieter than before. Steve raised an eyebrow at his friend to second the question.

“I told him that if he promises he’ll be fine, then I won’t let these two idiots touch him unless his life depends on it,” came Bucky’s succinct explanation. Peter nodded to confirm, only to raise an arm in weak protest when the man pulled a knife and remote out of his pocket and passed them up to Sam. Bucky rolled his eyes. “You don’t need those.”

Peter pouted but otherwise let it go. A small smile pulled at Clint’s lips. “Barnes also mentioned that he’s beaten them both up before,” he added.

Tony didn’t sound terribly pleased when he said, _“Alright, fine,”_ but he did move on from the issue and change the subject. _“What happened in the truck, kid?”_

“The Hydra lady,” Steve presumed Peter meant the agent with the broken collarbone, “drugged me, I panicked, then panicked again, and left. I wasn’t gonna come here, but…” The kid shrugged.

Idly, Steve wondered if the kid even knew what drove him to meet up with the team, but whatever it was, he didn’t sound too pleased about it. That might be something they should talk about later, but for the time being, he figured they should give Peter a break and focus instead on getting him to a safe place.

***

As it turned out, Peter trusted Bucky enough to fall asleep on him; at least, based on how he rested fitfully and let out the occasional incoherent mumble, he assumed the kid hadn’t completely passed out. But it could also just be the effects of being drugged that left him unable to stay awake—no trust involved. The latter would come as less of a surprise.

Around halfway through the car ride, Clint raised an eyebrow at Bucky. “Petya?”

Bucky just shrugged, careful not to disturb the kid. “Nicknames are humanizing.” A pause, and a moment later, he added, “Depending on who’s giving them.” Steve glanced between the two but didn’t say anything.

Eventually, they pulled into a lot, nearly empty aside from the private jet. Peter jerked awake when Bucky’s hand came too close to his side, but the man merely undid his seatbelt. When the kid showed no capability of getting up and moving on his own, Bucky carried him onto the jet and settled down in a corner away from the others. Without the energy to support his own weight, Peter slumped against him once more. Bucky took careful note of the kid’s pulse and breathing.

The next couple hours consisted of Bucky doing his best to coexist with the kid glued to his side. As they both shifted around in attempts to get more comfortable, Bucky occasionally adjusted Peter’s position, which earned him muttered complaints each time. “C’mon, squirt, your bony shoulder’s digging into my ribs,” he retorted at one point, and the kid opened his eyes just enough to give him a withering glare.

A few times, Bucky caught Steve or Clint smiling at him, apparently amused by his predicament—the price he paid for knowing how to deal with the kid. Whenever one of the others moved around or came too close, Peter stared them down warily, but nothing ultimately came of it. Well, nothing aside from Steve finding a wet cloth and Bucky using it to clean blood and dirt off the kid’s face and neck, snorting when Peter whined and tried to turn his head away. In the end, at least he looked like less of a mess than he did before.

Eventually, the kid fell into a deeper sleep, and Steve took the chance to move to the seat across from Bucky. “Is he doing alright?” he asked, hardly audible to avoid waking Peter.

“About as well as he can be.” Bucky half-smiled. The kid’s body temperature had gradually cooled down to normal, and though his pulse and breathing were sometimes erratic, they weren’t too much of a concern. “It’s not ideal,” Bucky considered his words carefully, “but he’s overwhelmed. If being in control of something helps him stay calm, so be it.”

Between getting drugged, blood loss, probable sensory overload, and making a decision that went entirely against the mentality he’d built up over the past near-decade, Peter had quite an eventful day—and he likely felt pretty horrible about it all. Adding the foreign sensation of people actually caring about his safety may as well have been the straw that broke the camel’s back in terms of being more than he could process. If Bucky could make it easier for him to deal with, then he would.

Steve sighed. “I just hope we didn’t upset him.”

“If you did, you’ll just have to deal with it.” Absentmindedly, Bucky carded his fingers through the kid’s hair, receiving sleepy little noises in return. “He might be upset by the fact that you exist in general.”

Huffing out a soft laugh, the soldier stared at his feet for a moment before looking back up. “We’ll be at the safehouse in ten minutes.”

“Alright. I’ll get the kid ready.”

***

When they arrived, Peter managed to walk on his own, but since a strong breeze could’ve knocked him over, Bucky stayed close behind him. The man had been picturing somewhere bleak and dark; however, he noted with no small amount of surprise that this safehouse was just a regular house—bigger than average and in the middle of nowhere, but a regular house nonetheless. Or a small mansion, rather.

Fury, Natasha, and Tony stood on the deck waiting for them, the former two in proper stances while the latter stuffed his hands in his pockets. Steve led the way up to the house while Clint and Sam brought up the rear, and Fury raised an eyebrow as he took in the kid’s appearance—his bloody, shoeless, exhausted appearance—though Bucky doubted it came as a surprise given that Tony most likely kept the director updated. That didn’t stop him from asking, “Why are you barefoot?”

Peter swayed. “Shoes are inconvenient?” His response sounded more like a question than anything, and when he didn’t seem intent on continuing up the stairs, Bucky nudged his shoulder. It took more effort than strictly necessary, but the kid _did_ get stabbed; he deserved to be cut some slack.

Evidently, not everyone shared that sentiment. As the group made their way inside, Fury continued. “What about the tracker? I’m sure I mentioned we had that part covered.”

Bucky suspected that Fury had been secretly grateful for the tracker; after all, it meant that while they had to keep their distance in order to avoid being suspects in the kid’s escape, they could still keep an eye on him using the device’s actual transmission. Unfortunately for them, the tracker apparently wasn’t as well-placed as intended, though it must’ve been difficult to remove either way.

His attention drawn to the spacious interior of the house, the kid took a moment to formulate a response. Something—or everything, really, from the fresh paint to the carpet glue—smelled new, like it’d just been remodeled. “It was a dumb plan,” came his blunt retort. “It’s easy enough to check for and hack something like that, especially if someone already suspects you’d interfere.”

Understandable, but in the end, it wasn’t the main issue. By Peter’s own admission, he originally didn’t plan on meeting up with the team, and if he’d gone off on his own, who knew if they’d find him? That, or he would’ve bled out due to the fact that he needed to keep moving. In the car and on the jet, he had the chance to rest and put proper pressure on his wounds. If he kept running, his healing factor may not’ve been able to keep up.

The director looked a little torn between defending his plan and moving on, but the way the kid’s shoulders sagged indicated that he needed a break, which Bucky attempted to reinforce by pinning Fury with a hard stare. Before Tony could launch into a full tour of the mansion, he rested a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “We should get you cleaned up.” It might make the kid feel a little better; being coated in dried blood wasn’t exactly the most comfortable sensation, after all.

“Right.” Tony snapped his fingers and pointed to a room down the hallway. “There’s his room, and there’re boxes of clothes ready to be brought in,” he said, the latter part directed towards Steve, Clint, and Sam while Bucky led Peter in the indicated direction.

The inside of the room was just as spacious as the rest of the house, and Bucky stifled a sigh as he glanced around. It was far too large for his own personal tastes, but maybe the kid would end up liking it; certainly, Hydra’s bases didn’t compare, especially in terms of lighting and cleanliness, though the foreignness could be either comforting or off-putting. The carpet’s fluffiness almost— _almost_ —hid the fact that the bed and dresser were still bolted to the floor. Bucky didn’t put much thought into that as he ushered Peter into the en suite bathroom.

Peter, tense and wound up, wrapped his arms around himself and glanced warily at the man, and Bucky briefly debated his phrasing before demanding, “Let me see your wounds.” For better or for worse, the kid seemed to comply with commands better than requests. While Bucky didn’t particularly _want_ to push Peter out of his comfort zone, he’d been lenient enough. Now that Peter had time to process the situation and settle down a little, Bucky needed to make sure he was alright—physically, at least.

With no small amount of hesitation, Peter gripped the bottom of his sweater and slowly peeled it off. The motion irritated the wound on his side, which began trickling blood once more, and the man rummaged through the cabinets to find a couple towels before wetting them both in the sink. When the kid reached for the hem of his sweatpants—which accumulated a fair amount of blood as well—Bucky swatted his hand away.

“You can handle that part yourself.” He scoffed softly as he wrung out one of the towels and handed it to Peter, but not before looking over the wound. Based on the size of the knife and how much blood he lost—well, it must’ve been far worse initially. Likely, it was around half to two-thirds healed, by his rough estimate. Towel in hand, Peter continued to apply pressure to his side, cheeks flushing in apparent embarrassment at the scrutiny.

Though Bucky wasn’t sure what the kid had to be flustered about, it was nice to see some color finally return to his face, at least. He patted the counter before helping the kid up to sit on it, then took the other towel in his left hand and Peter’s left wrist in his right, the metal cuff cool against his skin. From what he could see, the wound from Peter carving the tracker out since faded into an angry red line.

Peter stiffened and watched him like a hawk, but otherwise attempted to accommodate as Bucky began wiping dried blood from his skin—though his movements were awkward and he sometimes twisted his arm the wrong way. It didn’t come as a shock; Bucky doubted the kid was used to anyone showing even the smallest amount of concern for his well-being, let alone having anyone try to help him. To be treated like a human being after years of being used like a tool—yeah, he understood how surreal that was. Confusing, unnatural, overwhelming, and it took a long time to get used to.

When Bucky first went about reintegrating into society, he’d been alone, cut off from everything he’d known and thrown into a world he barely recognized. Maybe Steve would have helped him had Bucky sought him out, but he didn’t know that for sure; after all, he didn’t understand why anyone, even his best friend, would bother with a Hydra assassin, especially one who nearly killed America’s sweetheart. No, he convinced himself that he needed to stay under the radar, unknown, while he attempted to salvage his suppressed memories and figure out who the hell he was. Some days, it seemed like he couldn’t even walk without receiving orders—and those weren’t even the worst.

But this kid didn’t have to go through that nightmare alone. A lot of things confused Bucky nowadays, but he held no doubts about wanting to help Peter. Maybe he had a soft spot or something of the sort. One day when he comforted Wanda after a bad accident, Steve remarked that _he’d always been good with kids._ Bucky didn’t really remember why, and in the end, it seemed to be a good thing. Something positive about himself that he didn’t loathe, a reminder that he was still capable of helping people.

When he finished cleaning the blood from Peter’s arm, he moved onto the kid’s back; given how red it was, Bucky figured that he must’ve laid down for awhile. Peter’s eyes followed him, occasionally flickering to the mirror for a better view, and Bucky watched him as well. The kid was an odd combination of bony and muscular—a result of his enhanced physiology fighting against malnutrition, most likely—and Bucky counted his ribs absentmindedly while he wiped the blood off, pausing every now and then to rinse the towel.

At one point, his hand came too close to the wound, and Peter tensed, ready to pull away. Bucky observed this radius—around two inches from the edge of where the kid’s towel covered—and made sure to respect it. Soon enough, the majority of the kid’s torso was cleaned of blood and dirt, and Bucky ruffled Peter’s hair softly before exiting the bathroom in search of new clothes. As if on cue, Steve entered the room with a box in hand; in any other situation, Bucky would have laughed at the mental image of his friend waiting in the hallway for just the right moment.

“How is he?” Steve wasted no time in asking, his voice low like that’d prevent the kid from overhearing him.

Bucky rolled his eyes as he took the box, rummaged through it, and pulled an outfit together, then opened the bathroom door just enough to toss the clothes onto the counter; he could almost swear he heard the kid huff in response. “He’ll live,” he reported after a moment of consideration.

It wasn’t a satisfactory answer, but Steve accepted it with a nod and a soft sigh. Though he appeared to have something on his mind, he stayed quiet, and Bucky settled for leaning against the wall and alternating between watching Steve and listening to the sounds of Peter moving in the bathroom. He didn’t need to question the tension in his friend’s shoulders or the occasional heavy exhale; it seemed they were all high strung.

Eventually, the bathroom door opened and Peter shuffled out, coming to a stop at Bucky’s side and staring up at him. Bucky returned the stare almost expectantly, and a moment of stubborn silence passed before Steve broke it. “I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” he started as he rested a hand on the kid’s shoulder, only to receive a blank look in return. “I didn’t mean to, but I was worried.”

Given the state Peter had been in for the past several hours, Bucky had to question how much of the day the kid even remembered, especially when Steve’s apology sparked no recognition in his eyes. Well, at least Steve didn’t have to worry about Peter being upset with him, right? That or he did remember and just didn’t understand what supposedly bothered him.

Bucky shot the tiniest smile in Steve’s direction. “Are there any dinner plans?”

“Yes,” the captain answered, shoulders sagging slightly in relief at the change of subject. Peter’s silence unnerved him; Bucky picked up on that quickly over the couple days when the kid refused to speak. “Sam and Clint decided they were too hungry to keep moving boxes, so they’re looking through the kitchen to see what there is to make. Do you have any preferences?”

He directed the question towards Peter, who merely shrugged as he followed them out of the room and towards the kitchen. The closer they got, the clearer Bucky could make out a few different voices discussing which ingredients could be used for which meals—which, due to some of those options overlapping, created some dissent. Clint was the first to notice when the trio entered the room, and he ended any arguments with one simple statement: “If Cap’s cooking, I’m fine with anything.”

From what Bucky observed at the Compound, most of the Avengers tended to handle their own meals, whether that meant cooking for themselves, assembling sandwiches, or whatever else. But everyone seemed to enjoy Steve’s cooking the best, which meant that he occasionally got conned into making lunch or dinner for the whole team. Since everyone agreed, that seemed like the ideal solution.

Peter pulled himself up into a seat at the breakfast bar, resting his arms on the granite countertop and burying his face in them. Though a few people glanced over, no one addressed him; however, it seemed Bucky wasn’t the only one who noticed how the kid eyed the fruit bowl, as Natasha picked an apple out and rolled it over to him. His nose scrunched up as he ate it, but he was either getting used to more flavorful foods or getting better at hiding how much it bothered him.

Steve sifted through the various ingredients spread across the counter before pulling together what he wanted to use and beginning to make dinner, and Bucky noted that Tony and Fury were absent—off pretending to help with whatever investigation, surely. At times like this, it must be convenient that Tony could use his Iron Man suits remotely, since it made him _lending a hand_ more convincing.

Though Bucky listened absentmindedly as the others chatted amongst themselves, he didn’t join in, instead taking a seat two down from Peter’s. He must have watched Steve cook thousands of times by then; he couldn’t quite recall, but it surprised him how well he could anticipate which ingredients or spices his friend would throw in next, the way he’d stir, for how long. It was amusing how he could know all that and still not be able to cook worth a damn himself.

Eventually, Tony and Fury rejoined the group, the latter apparently deciding that he gave Peter enough time to rest. He came to stand at the edge of the breakfast bar, close but not enough to be imposing. Peter, having finished eating his apple—core and all—looked up at him. “What happened in the truck?” the director asked.

The kid’s previous summary didn’t give much detail, to say the least, and it’d be useful to know more. Groaning, Peter buried his face in his arms briefly before sighing and lifting his head once more. Still not eager to talk—but he forced himself nonetheless. “The Hydra lady,” he repeated his phrasing from before, “drugged me. I woke up—‘cause I always… play dead when they test that stuff on me, so they think it’s more effective than it actually is—and panicked. Uh, did the truck get attacked?”

“Yes,” Fury confirmed, and a moment later, possibly to reassure him, he added, “A few of our agents were injured, but they all survived.” That news dissolved some of the kid’s tension—not much, but enough. “What happened next?”

“I realized that my sudden movement pissed the other agents off, didn’t feel like getting shot, used the knock-out gas. Got stabbed for my efforts. Which—that knife is mine now, by the way. I bled on it, so legally, it’s mine.” Peter shot an accusatory glance towards Bucky, who shrugged innocently; after all, it wasn’t like _he_ still had it.

Clint snorted out a laugh. “Kid, if everything you bleed on belongs to you, then the car, the jet, and Barnes do too.” Instinctively, Bucky looked down at himself—specifically, the dried blood still on his hands and clothes thanks to having an injured child stuck to his side for a few hours. He hadn’t particularly noticed before, mostly because the dark stains almost blended in with his red shirt.

Too tired to be excited by the notion of owning such technology, Peter let out a disappointed sigh. “I can’t drive. Or fly.”

“Barnes can,” Clint informed him helpfully.

Steve gave the archer a reproachful look. “You can’t own people.”

Based on Tony’s expression, he seemed tempted to join in with some snappy comment, only to clear his throat and bring the conversation back on track. “And then you left the truck? I was keeping an eye on all the places where it would’ve been safe for you to get off, but you never showed up.”

“Safe,” Peter repeated as though he’d never heard that word before. “Right. No, I know. That’s kinda why I didn’t get off at those places. Anyway, everything’s a little blurry after that. But I was clearly incapable of rational thought.”

“You snuck up on two super soldiers and a world-class spy,” the billionaire pointed out with a scoff. “You were clearly capable of something.”

The kid’s injuries distracted them from putting too much thought into his abrupt arrival—at least, that was the case for Bucky—and in hindsight, maybe they should have questioned that sooner. Peter just shrugged. “I think that says more about them than it does about me.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you can blame anyone for expecting you to walk up like a normal person. Where did you even come from?”

 _Above_ would be the obvious answer, which only left the question of _how_. It wasn’t like there was much to climb on, given the mostly smooth concrete. A few cracks here and there shouldn’t allow that sort of mobility. Bucky figured it must be some ability Peter had yet to disclose, and the way the kid shrugged again and lowered his head only confirmed that suspicion. Once more, Bucky wondered what sort of accident left him enhanced.

“Food’s ready,” Steve announced, and Natasha gathered plates and silverware and helped him dish out dinner. In turn, the others got up to grab their plates, and Bucky took two and set one down in front of Peter before returning to his seat. The kid mumbled gratitude as he began picking at his food. The meal went by relatively quietly—Clint and Sam talked about movies while Tony, Natasha, and Steve chimed in every now and then.

Once everyone finished eating and all the dishes were in the sink, Fury stood at the bar once more and cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Let’s get some ground rules out of the way, shall we? You,” he focused on Peter, “are not to set foot outside of this safehouse. Stark’s AI will stop you if you try it or do anything else suspicious.” Because cozy or not, this was still a cage. His gaze swept the room. “The rest of you aren’t under house arrest, but the last thing I need is for you to show up on some satellite or drone’s camera. If you need to leave, be smart about it.”

Sam and Clint were set to depart with Fury; after all, the more team members who were absent, the more likely they were to be missed. Sam and Steve exchanged a firm handshake while Clint and Natasha hugged their goodbyes before Tony showed them to the door. When the billionaire returned, Peter frowned at him. “You’re staying too?”

“Yeah. Who else is going to keep this house from catching fire?”

“Don’t you have a company or something?”

Abandoning the dishes for now, Steve walked over to Bucky, patting his shoulder once as he said, “We should finish moving those boxes.”

Bucky nodded, and as they exited the kitchen and made their way towards the front of the house, he listened to a little more of Peter and Tony’s conversation.

“No, Pepper runs the company. I’m just the face of it.”

“Pepper?”

“My fiancée.”

“Fiancée?”

“See, kid, when two people love each other very much…”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky hoped that the billionaire didn’t corrupt the kid too much, then turned his attention to the few boxes piled up in the foyer, labeled with each of their names. Since Steve already received the run-down of who got which room, Bucky settled for following his lead as they moved everything around, taking note of the layout. Steve’s room was directly next to Peter’s while Bucky’s was right across from it—likely because they had the best chance of containing him should something happen, so it made sense for them to be the closest—while Tony and Natasha were further down the hall.

In each room that wasn’t the kid’s, Bucky tested the bed and dresser to see if they were bolted to the floor, which Steve took to rolling his eyes at. “I’m just curious,” Bucky defended with a shrug. It didn’t come as a surprise that only Peter’s furniture was stuck in place, and while he understood the precaution, he wasn’t overjoyed about it. Once the last of the boxes were placed in Steve’s room, he opened one up and started to put the clothes into the dresser. “How are you holding up?”

Moving to help, Steve offered a soft smile. “It’s been a long day,” he admitted, and though he tried to keep the weariness from his voice, Bucky picked up on it. Steve had been tired in general lately: the unfortunate realization that Hydra was still around took a toll on him, and the endless investigations and raids that followed didn’t help.

For a brief moment, Bucky wondered if the two-year-long search for _him_ put this much strain on his friend, but he quickly suffocated the guilt that rose like bile in his gut. _Steve deserves better,_ an old voice whispered. He ignored it, forcing a smile in return. “Maybe he’ll warm up.” Knowing that Peter didn’t want to be here—that he didn’t want their help—didn’t exactly make Bucky feel nice and fuzzy; however, he tried to keep his hopes up and reminded himself that the kid did still come willingly.

They might’ve kidnapped him a little bit, but at least they didn’t do it by force.

“SHIELD might assume that Hydra took Peter back,” the captain mused, stopping to fiddle with the hem of a t-shirt, “but Hydra will know that’s not the case. If they come looking for him—”

“This safehouse got the seal of approval from both Stark and Fury,” Bucky cut him off. “I’d be shocked if Stark hasn’t programmed his AI to erase this place from the very fabric of existence.” He received a chuckle for his efforts. “C’mon. Our job is to help the kid. Leave the information aspect to the super spies.”

This time, Steve’s smile was more genuine. “I can multi-task.”

Bucky only heard the sound of soft footsteps right before the door, slightly ajar, creaked further open, and he turned to see Peter poke his head inside. Which was odd since he was used to more advance warning—enhanced hearing and all. “What’s up, kiddo?” he greeted.

With a quiet yawn, Peter shuffled in and glanced around the room. “Tired.” His gaze lingered briefly on the bed, though in the end, he made his way towards the bay window and curled up on the ledge there. It was deep enough for him to make himself comfortable, though Bucky or Steve likely wouldn’t be able to do much more than sit on it.

Whether the kid actually wanted to be around them or just assumed he wasn’t allowed to be alone, Bucky couldn’t tell, but he supposed the room was at least quieter than wherever Tony was. Steve stood up to grab a blanket and place it over Peter, who mumbled something incoherent. Well, they _were_ going to rejoin the group once they finished unpacking, but since the kid specifically came to them, Bucky figured that they might as well stay. He communicated this to Steve via a quirk of his lips and a half-shrug.

They alternated between silence and small talk, occasionally glancing over towards Peter when he made soft noises in his sleep. Every now and then, Tony or Natasha came and checked on them; the latter came and sat for awhile, though the former mentioned updating FRIDAY’s system and thus disappeared. Eventually, Steve decided that it was time for bed, and Bucky retired to his own room, quickly putting his stuff away before settling down.

When he slept, he dreamed of a life before Hydra, before war, though the images drifted away once he woke up, foggy and distant.

***

Unsurprisingly, Steve woke up at every small sound the kid made, though any adrenaline rush quickly wore off once he registered that it was only Peter mumbling and shifting in his sleep—most of the time. When he sat up, cross-legged as he faced the window, the soldier debated asking if he was alright; however, he ultimately decided that Peter could use some quiet time to himself, so he let it go and let himself fall back asleep.

At dawn, he awoke for the final time, yawned, and stretched, lips quirking up when he noticed the kid leaning against the window with his eyes shut. His blanket had fallen from his shoulders, and as Steve approached, his eyes fluttered open groggily. “Morning,” the soldier greeted.

Stifling a yawn, Peter forced himself up straighter and rubbed at his eyes, then shifted his gaze towards Steve. A moment passed before he pulled his knees up to his chest and backed against the wooden edge of the bay window—a movement that lacked urgency and, based on the way he glanced at the empty space next to him, was likely meant to ensure Steve could sit down if he so desired.

So, he took the invitation. Steve let the silence linger as his gaze wandered between the room, the kid, and the forest outside, and when it became clear that Peter wouldn’t break it, he opted to. “How are you feeling?”

Peter regarded him cautiously, pursing his lips for a moment before he moved to grip the bottom of his sweater, and with barely a second of hesitation, he shifted his legs out of the way and pulled the fabric up high enough for Steve to see the wound on his side—or the remnants of it, at least. Nothing more than a pale pink line marred his skin, which blended in almost seamlessly if not for the dried blood around the area; it would fade soon enough.

In Steve’s case, it would take at least a full day to heal from such a serious stab wound, especially if his body was fighting off drugs along with it. He didn’t want to think about what vital organs the knife likely hit. Well, super healing came in handy. “Good, good,” he said with a nod, mostly just for the sake of acknowledgement. He watched Peter tug his sweater back down and hug his knees to his chest. “Yesterday,” he continued since Peter didn’t seem to remember, “you were upset because I tried to help you. That’s why I apologized.”

The explanation elicited no reaction. Maybe it wasn’t necessary—perhaps the kid recalled more now that he had time to recover. Either way, Steve gave a small smile as he stood up, and he made it a couple steps towards the bathroom before Peter scrambled to push the blanket aside and follow… only to topple over.

Steve was quick to catch him before he could faceplant into the carpet, and this time, Peter didn’t object to the support as he shakily regained his footing; he did, however, refrain from grabbing onto the soldier to _help_ support himself. “Um,” the kid mumbled at length. “I… guess I’m still lightheaded.”

“Will you be alright?” He received a hurried nod in response to the question, which he hoped was not mere assurance. But on the other hand, he supposed a little dizziness was the least of Peter’s worries, so Steve forced himself not to dwell on it too much. Once confident in the kid’s ability to stand and walk, the soldier continued to the bathroom—where it occurred to him that Peter hadn’t brushed his teeth before going to sleep.

Rummaging through the cabinet, he grabbed the second new toothbrush from the box his own came from, then stood to hand it to Peter, who followed his lead as he brushed his teeth. The kid’s movements were sluggish and absentminded, and Steve kept an eye on him. He brushed adequately—but not quite well enough to earn a dentist’s approval. Somehow, the soldier doubted the personal hygiene of their _tools_ was high on Hydra’s list of priorities.

Upon rinsing his mouth out, Steve bit back a sigh and raised a hand to gently tap the back of Peter’s. “Here, if you—” He only meant to instruct, perhaps guide if necessary, but the way the kid immediately surrendered control startled him. Quick to grab the toothbrush when the other let go, Steve pursed his lips, noting how Peter schooled his expression into something perfectly stoic, all traces of even weariness gone.

While it was a stark contrast to the kid who almost growled at him the day before, Steve knew that Hydra _did_ place importance on obedience—something they were thorough in teaching. _Order came through pain,_ if he recalled correctly. After taking a moment to gather his wits, he used his other hand to carefully tilt Peter’s head up for a better angle, and though the muscles beneath his fingers were relaxed, he could sense the tension in the kid’s shoulders and measured breaths.

Thanks to the proximity, two thoughts hit him at once. One, Peter was roughly the same size Steve had been pre-serum, which somehow hadn’t quite registered before, and two, he loathed the inherent vulnerability of this position. It’d be easy for someone malicious to take advantage of, but he did his best to ignore that mental image as he explained—and demonstrated—a proper brushing technique. He took great care to avoid accidentally jamming the toothbrush down his throat or doing anything else that might hurt him.

If nothing else, that not all of Peter’s teeth were perfectly aligned only further enforced the fact that whatever Hydra did to him differed from the super soldier serum. But in the end, that wasn’t a pleasant train of thought either.

“There,” the soldier murmured once he finished, stepping back to allow Peter to spit out the toothpaste and rinse his mouth. As he watched the kid’s demeanor settle back into something more normal, he debated the best way to politely kick Peter out so that he could take a shower, though he paused when Peter glanced up at him.

Biting his lip, the kid fidgeted with the edge of the counter, looking back at his hands briefly before returning his attention to Steve. “I…” He swallowed. “I keep forgetting that you won’t yell at me for talking, so—um, if I don’t respond when you speak to me, that might be why. And… uh, yeah.”

Though he quirked an eyebrow, Steve decided not to press the near addition. “How much or how little you talk is up to you,” he reassured instead. “I don’t intend to dictate your every move, Peter. You _are_ your own person.” Even if Hydra convinced him otherwise.

Peter squinted. “Am I?” He glanced at the door then back to Steve before tilting his head slightly in silent question: _what now?_

They would come back to this issue later. “I’m going to take a shower, okay?” The soldier pursed his lips in consideration. “If you’re still lightheaded, it’s probably better if you wait until later. So, you can either wait for me out there,” he gestured to the bedroom, “or see if anyone else is awake.”

Blinking slowly, Peter nodded, placed his toothbrush in the holder next to Steve’s, and walked out of the bathroom, and the soldier stepped out after him to grab a change of clothes before returning to take his shower. That few minutes, he discovered upon exiting the bathroom once more, was just enough for Peter to change outfits—now sporting a different sweater and one of several pairs of Iron Man pajama pants—and doze off next to the door.

His internal debate over whether or not to leave him be was cut short when the kid woke himself up, tilting his head back to stare at the soldier for a moment before rising to his feet, a little steadier than earlier. Steve offered a smile as he led the way to the kitchen, nodding to Natasha and Tony when they came into view.

Tony, still up a ladder laboring over his upgrades, gestured to a tool he either dropped or forgot on the ground and addressed no one in particular: “Can you hand me that?”

***

First thing in the morning, Bucky checked Steve’s room, and upon finding it empty, he tried the kitchen—and had to do a double take when he looked into the living room. Tony was up a ladder as he configured whatever wires were hidden in the ceiling, which was normal and to be expected; after all, he didn’t expect upgrades to something as complicated as an AI to be finished quickly, especially since it’d apparently been a long time since the last one.

No, what caught Bucky off guard was the kid crouched next to him, spare tools in hand. Upside-down. On the ceiling. With his shirt half-tucked in to keep it from falling. Peter smiled and waved once he noticed the man, and Bucky, somewhat dazed at the sight, returned the gesture. Tony didn’t appear the least bit fazed as he occasionally traded tools with the kid, and as Bucky entered the kitchen fully, he noted Steve staring up with an incredulous expression while Natasha, apparently indifferent to the matter, stirred a cup of coffee.

It took a moment to realize how ridiculous it was that Bucky and Steve—the two superhuman lab experiments—were more taken aback by the sight than Tony and Natasha—who were, for all intents and purposes, normal people. Scoffing at his own surprise, he set the coffee pot to brew before wandering over to the living room. “Having fun?”

Tony frowned at him in the startled way he always did when he failed to notice Bucky approach; while the former assassin never intended to sneak up on him, but he had yet to break the habit of walking near-silently. Peter, on the other hand, appeared to be in better spirits than he was the day before. “Mr. Stark’s showing me how FRIDAY works,” he explained.

Whether or not that was a good idea—well, Bucky figured it might be a little too late to question that. The AI was supposed to help keep Peter in check, but if the kid knew how the thing worked, then he might be able to hack it or override certain protocols. Tony knew this, if the challenging stare he leveled Bucky with was anything to go by. At the very least, Bucky figured the billionaire considered the possible ramifications before going through with this decision.

Peter was there because he wanted to be. Whether he enjoyed it or not, he did _choose_ to be there; after all, he could’ve escaped back when he first encountered Tony, and he could’ve escaped during the time they lost track of him. And now that they were out in the middle of nowhere, there was nowhere to escape to and no real point in running. Unless he knew how to disappear before the team caught up to him, but with whatever heat scanning tech Tony had in his suit, it’d be far easier to find him out here than it had been in the middle of the city.

Either way, the kid looked rather pleased, so Bucky couldn’t bring himself to call it a _bad_ idea—just a little questionable. And he didn’t plan on objecting. Instead, he simply offered a soft shrug. “As long as you’re having fun.” He returned to his coffee, poured it into a mug, and took a seat next to Steve, who tore his gaze away from the kid with a near-incoherent mutter about the world getting stranger and stranger.

Natasha didn’t look up from reading the news on a tablet as she asked, “Sleep well?”

“Yeah.” The bed was a little soft for his tastes, but that hardly seemed like an issue, especially when he still slept well enough. His dreams were more pleasant than usual—despite thinking the opposite would be the case. Though he hardly remembered them, he certainly preferred them to his usual dreamless nights. “You?”

“I have no complaints. Stark doesn’t disappoint. My view is nice too.”

The house was surrounded by nature, and as a result, all the rooms had views of either the surrounding forest, the nearby river, or a combination of both. Bucky almost envied Peter for being small enough to sleep on the ledge right next to the window. Overall, there were worse places to be cooped up for an indefinite period of time.

The more Bucky thought about who’d been picked to stay behind with Peter, the more he realized how ingenious it was; after all, three people with questionable or outright bloody pasts and the living antithesis of Hydra were liable to get through to the kid better than anyone with a more normal history. That was the hope, at least. Though he could practically hear Peter’s snarky comment on the matter.

“You’re welcome,” Tony called from atop the ladder, then softened his voice to address Peter. “That should do it. Why don’t you go bug Cap to make breakfast?” A soft thud followed before the kid came to stand next to Steve and stare at him. When no words left his mouth, the billionaire attempted to correct him. “Pete, that usually entails more nagging.”

Peter swiveled his head around to watch Tony descend the latter and reorganize his tools. “But it bothers him more when I _don’t_ say anything.”

“He’s not wrong,” Steve supported this claim.

“And yet you aren’t making breakfast,” Tony retorted.

Sighing, the soldier stood and headed to the fridge, gathering ingredients and pausing as he set them on the counter. A smile pulled at his lips. “Peter, why don’t you come help?” The kid padded over to him, footsteps silent, and inspected every item of food and the pans while Steve explained how to make omelets.

Tony took a seat a few down from Bucky and glanced at Natasha. “Anything interesting happening in the world?”

Because evidently, Steve wasn’t the only one who spent his mornings scrolling through the news—though he was the only one who preferred a physical paper. “A hiker found a body in a suitcase,” the spy reported casually like she was talking about the weather, “yesterday in Virginia. Police haven’t identified the remains yet.”

“Riveting.” Tony made a face. “I’ll enjoy thinking about that while I eat.”

Natasha shrugged innocently. “You asked.”

“Would you rather start cracking eggs or chop up the fillings?” Steve asked once he finished explaining the process and preparation.

Peter raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Is it a good idea to offer me a knife?” The soldier passed a bowl and the carton of eggs over to the kid, whose first attempt came out a little messy. “Oh,” he mumbled, leaning over to inspect his work, “does it matter if there’s shell in there?”

“It adds extra protein,” Bucky answered.

Steve rolled his eyes at him before addressing Peter and holding out a spoon for him. “You can just fish it out.” Then, they continued cooking in relative peace. Though inexperienced, the kid was a fast learner, and his worst mistake—one he couldn’t go back and fix—was burning one of the omelets, which he offered to take as they served the food.

Once they were all settled down and eating, Natasha half-smiled at Peter before asking, “What sort of accident makes you stick to the ceiling?”

***

“You still have nothing?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Fury retorted against Ross’ complaints, deceivingly patient, “I’m not omniscient. We’ve been searching for the kid and Hydra agents that got away, but we haven’t found anything. Evidently, hiding is their specialty.”

Though Ross looked about ready to launch into a furious tirade, he managed to hold his tongue—a miracle, really. “When you find anything, you tell me.”

“That’s the plan, yes.”


	4. featherlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-English dialogue is italicized because I can't be bothered with translators, especially for languages I can't speak at all.
> 
> Enjoy!

“What sort of accident makes you stick to the ceiling?”

Peter’s hand stilled at the question, and with sudden interest, he stared intently at his omelet. “Who knows?” he mumbled after a few moments, pushing a bit of egg around his plate.

Natasha, unsatisfied with that answer, raised an eyebrow. “I’m under the impression that you do.”

When Bucky asked Tony what security measures the safehouse had—specifically, the ones that’d prevent Peter from escaping—he received a look that was equally exasperated and wary, which meant that the billionaire was likely aware of his temptation to just take the kid and run. Seeing Peter’s uncomfortable expression now reminded him of that conversation—or how his thoughts drifted to a quiet, ocean-side town away from all of this. Away from Hydra, from SHIELD, from pardons and deals and everything else.

“Well.” One of the kid’s shoulders lifted in a halfhearted shrug. Though a little shaky, his voice maintained an innocent lilt. “If anyone _did_ know, it’d probably make it a lot easier to replicate.”

And that, of course, was something Hydra failed to accomplish: whatever happened, whether it was their doing or something else, Peter managed to keep it a secret for this long. Bucky could imagine what sort of questioning Hydra must’ve put him through, and if he wasn’t impressed by the kid’s willpower before, he certainly was now. If Hydra suspected that he knew and refused to tell them—well, the interrogation would be far from pleasant.

“I’m guessing that means you don’t want SHIELD knowing either,” Tony assessed before smiling at Peter. “Good job on the omelets, by the way.”

“It was mostly Cap.” Waving a hand dismissively, the kid resumed eating.

Steve let out a soft huff. “You helped plenty. You’re a fast learner, so you may end up being a better cook than I am.”

“Not like you have a hundred years of experience on the kid or anything,” Bucky countered.

“Who knows?” Tony gestured. “Youth brings innovation and new ideas. Kid might become a master chef before we realize it. Isn’t that right, Pete?”

Peter’s response came out as a hardly audible mumble. “Maybe.” He didn’t appear all too pleased about the subject—possibly because it fell into the category of things he saw as impossible. Things that weren’t worth hoping for or thinking about because they were too normal. Likely, he was still convinced that this whole situation would end up with him in some imprisonment, whether by Hydra or SHIELD.

Lighthearted conversation might not be easy with this kid. Whatever good mood he had before dissipated. Maybe he realized that his lack of knowledge and experience made discussing the mundane difficult, or maybe he didn’t feel like pretending that such things might become reality one day.

Breakfast passed by in relative silence—aside from Tony attempting to rekindle the conversation and receiving little response even when he mentioned the scraps of tech he managed to bring along. Wordlessly, Peter trailed after Steve to help him clean the dishes, though he needed to be taught how to do that as well, and Bucky watched while Steve gently instructed as the kid followed along with a blank expression.

Tony and Natasha stayed close, but while the latter appeared content to continue scrolling through the news as she sipped her second cup of coffee, the billionaire soon became restless. From what Bucky could tell, he’d never been one to sit still for long, and there wasn’t much to do in this place. Not in their current room, at least, and he probably didn’t want to excuse himself elsewhere. The kid showing interest in seeing his mini lab might’ve been his only chance at entertainment.

Bucky considered breaking something just so Tony could fix it. Keep his hands busy. At this rate, his will would crumble before Peter’s did. A few minutes passed—Steve and Peter were now drying and putting away the dishes—and Bucky met Natasha’s gaze, and her eyes expressed the same thought: Tony was the only impatient person there. If he were in his lab with his equipment, he could stay under for days without coming up for air. But having to watch Peter didn’t leave him with that option.

If they were trying to break Tony’s spirit to get information out of him, this might be a decent way to go about it. As it stood, however, Bucky stored that thought away in the back of his mind.

When Steve and Peter finished in the kitchen, the soldier led the way back to the table and took a seat, the kid lingering behind him. If not for his enhanced eyesight, Bucky likely would have missed the subtle way Peter’s shoulders slumped, the slightest downturn of his lips—disappointed now that he didn’t have a task to complete, presumably. Bucky knew how menial work could be used to avoid unpleasant thoughts.

 _“Petya,”_ Bucky addressed the kid in Russian upon recalling something Steve said, pointing out the glass doors to the deck, _“look at that bird.”_ Peter turned, watched the small bird for a moment, and raised an eyebrow at him. _“A friend used to call them popcorn birds because of how they hop around.”_

The kid glanced back at the animal. _“Popcorn?”_

 _“Hard corn kernels. When you heat them up, they pop,”_ Natasha supplied helpfully, her lips quirking up in a smile.

Tony, who didn’t speak Russian, frowned at the language switch and looked towards Steve, who did a better job of hiding his confusion. Well, it didn’t particularly matter. If anything important came out of this conversation, they’d be kept up to date.

It probably wouldn’t cheer Peter up to continue talking about the serious stuff all day, and he seemed a little sensitive towards anything that insinuated a normal life. Learning to cook would require commitment, whether he picked it up quickly or not, and he didn’t want to hope he’d be able to. But it’d be difficult to earn his trust without talking at all, and something small to look forward to wouldn’t hurt. Something insignificant—something unworthy of a feeling like hope. _“If I can find some,”_ Bucky promised, _“I’ll show you. How’s that sound?”_

 _“Okay. If you want,”_ the kid agreed, a little absentmindedly. The bird hopped around the deck for a little longer in search of crumbs before flying off. _“What are they actually called?”_

Bucky shrugged. _“I don’t know. Sparrows, maybe. There’s probably a lot of them out there.”_

Peter told Steve that he liked counting, and maybe doing something familiar would help him feel more comfortable. Sure, the house was large, but it was barely lived in; he’d probably run out of things to count within a day, whereas there were plenty of animals and plants outside. Even if he wasn’t allowed to physically leave, there were a lot of windows, each with a slightly different view.

The bait worked. After a lingering moment of hesitation, Peter wandered over to the glass doors, standing to watch before sitting cross-legged on the tile floor. Tony glanced between Bucky and Natasha with his eyebrows raised, to which the latter merely smiled sweetly and went to join the kid. Before anymore conversation could occur, the billionaire fiddled with his glasses and slid them on—most likely setting them to translate the languages he didn’t understand.

Natasha started talking about linguistics and what she enjoyed about learning different languages, and while the conversation was largely one-sided, Peter offered his input every now and then, just enough for Bucky to gauge that he spoke four languages semi-fluently—out of the several Natasha switched between, at least. Steve chimed in every now and then when it came to languages he understood, while Bucky and Tony settled for listening.

 _“The fastest I learned a language,”_ Natasha recounted, an almost nostalgic smile on her face, _“was when I was assigned to take out a target that only spoke Portuguese.”_

Peter’s nose scrunched up a little sheepishly. _“I’ve never been quick to pick up that sort of thing,”_ he said as though being able to speak four languages at fifteen wasn’t impressive. Though, he’d likely been told that it wasn’t good enough. Bucky knew how Hydra’s lessons went; his fingers twitched at the thought, and he glanced briefly at his metal hand.

Shrugging lightly, Natasha shot a teasing look towards the billionaire. _“You know more than Stark does.”_

Evidently, it took a moment for his translator to catch up. “I’m docking your pay,” Tony threatened once it did, sniffing in offense.

The corner of Peter’s mouth quirked up, but rather than comment on the exchange, he turned his head towards Bucky and pointed out at the trees. “What’s that one called?”

The man stood from his chair, walked over to the kid, and knelt down next to him before scanning the trees in the indicated direction. It took a moment, but he eventually caught sight of a red spot. Peter’s vision must be better than his too, he noted. “A cardinal?” Probably, at least, unless there were other red birds he didn’t know about. Birdwatching wasn’t exactly a hobby of his. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed Tony squinting at the trees.

With a nod, the kid quieted down once more—a little more content this time, Bucky felt mostly confident in saying. He and Natasha continued to sit with him, neither breaking the silence, and Steve disappeared for a few minutes before returning with some items from Tony’s lab and setting them on the table for the billionaire to play with.

Nothing particularly eventful happened, which Bucky expected; after all, building trust—especially with someone like Peter—took time, and he imagined that there’d be a lot of sitting around and doing nothing. Especially while the kid was still growing accustomed to the current situation. Well, they could try interrogating him again, but Bucky doubted it’d be effective. Peter gave away some personal information when he wanted to, though as for anything that’d help with Hydra, they’d likely have to wait until he approached them with that.

It could take weeks. Bucky didn’t mind either way.

Aside from getting up to help Steve with lunch, Peter stayed by the door. Eventually, Natasha moved back to the table to chat with Steve and Tony, and the three glanced over at the kid every now and then to make sure he was still doing alright. By evening, Tony declared that they were going to watch movies together and ushered everyone into the living room.

Bucky, admittedly, didn’t pay too much attention, distracted by a dull throbbing in his fingertips.

***

His dreams that night weren’t nearly as pleasant as the last. Wind rushing past his ears, trails of blood in the snow, blurred faces of unknown doctors, whispers of reassurance that sent shivers down his spine, pain, burning pain, searing pain—he woke with a start, grasping at his chest, at his heart, like ripping it out would help stop the—

 **“Sergeant Barnes** ,” FRIDAY’s voice, though usually pleasant, grated at his ears, **“you appear to be in distress. Would you like me to alert boss?”**

“No,” he hissed, harsher than he meant to. He leant back against the pillows, seeking out even an ounce of comfort, but there wasn’t any to be found. Not in the damp sheets soaked in his sweat. Not in the too-soft bed that felt like sinking into snow.

A moment passed before FRIDAY spoke again, a hint of something he didn’t care to decipher in her tone. **“Would you like me to alert Captain Rogers?”**

His response was immediate. “No. Just—don’t tell anyone. I’m fine.” Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and staggered to his feet. White spots floated around the edges of his vision, but he attempted to blink them away. “I’m fine,” he repeated just in case the AI didn’t understand the first time. “It’s just… a cramp.”

One hell of a cramp—if it could even be called that. His left arm hurt—burning, searing, just the same as the day he lost it—and he wrapped his right hand around the prosthetic as he weighed the pros and cons of ripping it off. The cool sensation did nothing to calm his nerves. Maybe water would help, he decided as he forced his feet to carry him towards the bathroom. He almost didn’t register the snap of metal when he opened the door.

“Dammit.” Bucky glared down at his left hand and willed it to release the broken knob, only for it to tighten its grip, warping the weaker metal. Dammit. When he tried harder, the arm jerked. _Dammit._ Stupid sensors, stupid misfires, stupid—with a soft groan, he hoped that no one heard the noise, that everyone else was sound asleep in their own rooms, far, far away. Maybe Stark’s love of spacious buildings would benefit him for once.

Once he made it into the bathroom, his legs decided to give out, leaving him to slide to the floor as gracefully as he could manage with his back pressed against the counter. Okay, maybe he couldn’t grab water, but—focus on breathing, right? And focus on keeping a firm hold on his prosthetic lest it lash out and break something else. His left arm was stronger than his right, but with enough effort, it wouldn’t be too difficult—a fact he knew from experience.

For a split second, he was grateful that at least there were no witnesses to his episode. The feeling didn’t last long before he flinched at a soft voice. “Uh, are you okay?”

Bucky squinted at the doorway and groaned once more when he made out Peter’s small frame lingering there. “Yeah, fine.” His tone did nothing to support the affirmation, which he mentally cursed, and his grip tightened on his arm. “Go back to bed, okay?”

“You don’t… What’s wrong?” The kid spoke quietly and hesitantly as he shifted his weight between his feet. “Do you want—”

It took all of Bucky’s willpower not to raise his voice. “No, Petya,” he forced out as patiently as he could manage, “I want you to leave. Just go.” Resting his head against the counter, he squeezed his eyes shut. Even the small amount of moonlight streaming in from the window threatened to worsen the pounding in his head. If he could just detach himself from this reality and drift off somewhere else, that’d be great. Anything to get away from this pain. For a moment, he fooled himself into thinking that Peter would actually listen—that his training to obey commands would work in his favor. He wasn’t that lucky.

Peter’s steps were shaky enough to make sound, but he crouched in front of the man anyway. Bucky cracked an eye open to watch, and right before he snapped at Peter, the kid repeated in Russian, _“What’s wrong?”_

 _“Go away, Petya.”_ Of all the times for Peter to be rebellious, did it have to be _now_? The metal underneath his fingertips was tense, ready to lash out. Bucky glared at the kid as best he could. _“Please leave,”_ he reiterated, dangerously close to begging. _“I don’t want to hurt you.”_

It didn’t have the desired effect. Peter looked him over. _“You won’t hurt me.”_ It sounded less like reassurance and more like a statement of fact, though the man currently lacked the patience to care about the distinction. But before he could argue the point, the kid reached out a hand towards his right shoulder—the touch featherlight and barely there.

Even though he saw it coming, Bucky still flinched at the contact, hissing under his breath. Old memories flashed across his mind—of getting into a fight, of a stubborn Steve checking him over for injuries, of laughing through pain. A long time ago, he might not’ve minded someone else seeing him in this state, but now, he loathed the inherent vulnerability of it. Peter’s previous comment about the kill-on-sight order left a bad taste in his mouth; despite that, however, a smaller, weaker part of his brain took over, and he lurched forward, his head falling against the kid’s shoulder.

A few things reminded him that this wasn’t small, pre-serum Steve: the uncertainty of the hand on his shoulder, the lack of comment, the taut muscles. Steve would be more relaxed, self-assured, and probably making some hypocritical quip about his recklessness. But Bucky wasn’t in pain because he was reckless, and Steve wasn’t with him right now. Regardless, the touch grounded him either way.

Peter, whether the contact bothered him or not, didn’t pull away. The logical part of Bucky told him that he should move, but he lacked the strength—both physically and mentally—to sit back up; instead, he focused on breathing, did his best to calm down and wait out the pain.

Just breathe. Five seconds in, seven out, hold for two. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Bucky didn’t know how much time passed while they stayed there unmoving, but eventually, the pain began to ebb away. Gradually, he relaxed more, and once he recovered enough, he forced himself upright with a muttered apology, his back hitting the counter. The kid’s hand fell from his shoulder and into his own lap. Raising a weak eyebrow once he felt confident enough to release his grip on his metal arm, Bucky asked, “I won’t hurt you?” He snorted. “That’s a lotta trust in someone you’ve known less than a week.”

“It’s not trust,” the kid denied, huffing as he fidgeted with his sleeves. “Just… intuition. Besides, it’s not like I’d really care if you did.” When Bucky frowned at the statement, Peter cleared his throat. “What, uh—what’s wrong with you, anyway?”

It wouldn’t hurt to not answer the question. Bucky had gone this long without saying anything—without anyone finding out—and he didn’t particularly care to talk about it now. As such, he opted to ignore it and focus instead on something else. “I’d care.” If the way Peter’s brows knit together and his lips quirked downwards were anything to go by, the declaration didn’t please him. Bucky rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter that you’re a kid or how long I’ve known you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Peter glanced between Bucky, his metal arm, and his own hands. For awhile, neither spoke, and Bucky half-expected the kid to leave now that he felt better.

When that didn’t happen, he sighed, closed his eyes for a minute, and reopened them. “You know, if it bothers you, just say something. Being touched, that is.” Peter just stared at him, so he elaborated. “You always tense up. If you want us to knock it off, we will.”

“Oh.” It appeared to take a long moment for the words to properly sink in, and the kid shrugged once they did. “Right, that’s—uh, no? I mean, I don’t know. I… guess I tense up because I’m expecting it to hurt, but then it doesn’t, so…”

During Bucky’s time in Hydra, they kept him under control well enough that he rarely received punishments; most of his pain came from missions or the chair. From what he could tell, that wasn’t the case with Peter, and the organization’s tools were forced to endure whatever treatment their handlers saw fit—which meant that even when the kid expected something to hurt, he merely braced himself and didn’t flinch. If physical contact that wasn’t painful confused him, well, Bucky understood that. And there was always the possibility that he’d warm up to it over time. After a sigh and another stretch of silence, the man spoke again. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t.” Peter looked back down at his hands, wringing them together. Now that Bucky could stand to look properly, he noticed how the moonlight reflected off the kid’s pale skin, giving it an odd glow.

Couldn’t sleep, then? Though Bucky hadn’t bothered to look at the clock, he knew it was well past midnight. “Thanks for helping me,” he said, despite the fact that he still hated being seen like that. “You didn’t have to.”

Humorlessly, the kid snorted. “Well, it’s not like I had anything else to do.”

Upon closer inspection, Peter was neither fiddling with his sleeves nor wringing his hands. In a way that appeared absentminded and almost unintentional, he dug his nails into his fingers, twisting and picking and scratching at the skin. The occasional red marred his skin, only to fade a few seconds later. Bucky frowned. “Stop that,” he chided.

Peter stiffened and blinked at him. “Uh, stop what?”

The man nodded towards his hands. “Doing that. To your hands.” Distantly, he recalled hearing that Peter resorted to hurting himself in order to retain some of his memories, and while he’d hoped that said habit didn’t go beyond that—well. They could work on breaking it.

After a moment of staring at his hands, the kid separated them and placed them on his knees, then cleared his throat softly. “You know that I just heal, right?” he reminded—and even had the gall to sound exasperated.

“Doesn’t matter.” Bucky scoffed. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

They lapsed into silence as Peter pursed his lips, scrutinizing the man. “If I make all my choices based on what other people want,” he commented, “then this really isn’t any different from being in Hydra.”

There was a deep weariness to his tone that almost caught Bucky off-guard, and it occurred to him why the kid refused to cooperate properly. Fear of repercussion from Hydra, sure, but that wasn’t all—he saw this whole plan as mere manipulation on the Avengers’ part. Bucky shifted, debating the proper way to respond. “They don’t want to help you for the sake of getting information. All they want is to help you—period—and the information’s just the means to the end.”

“And then what? Once I’m—I’m pardoned, or free, or whatever, what are they gonna do? Throw me out on the street to fend for myself? Yeah, sounds like a great plan.”

“Stark would find you somewhere to stay. Someone to stay with.” Even though such plans weren’t discussed yet, Bucky knew that they wouldn’t do nothing. He’d personally ensure it. “Just depends on what you want.”

Peter snorted, his fingers twitching. “Sure. Whatever. I doubt we want the same thing.” Eager to change the subject, he didn’t give the man a chance to respond before asking, “Why don’t you want Cap to come help you?”

Since Bucky doubted the kid would take well to him pressing the subject—and he was too tired to anyway—he went along with the switch, albeit not without a heavy exhale. “’Cause it’s not like he could do anything. He’d just be worrying over nothing.” And after two years on his own, he’d gotten used to dealing with these things himself. Maybe he just saw Steve’s involvement as an unnecessary nuisance.

“You said that I helped you,” Peter pointed out.

“I was just being polite,” the man countered with a frown.

“No, you meant it. I can hear your pulse.”

Okay, maybe the grounding touch made the ordeal easier to cope with, but that didn’t mean he _wanted_ help. Then again, he wondered how that must make him sound—that he wanted to help the kid without being helped himself. But he _did_ accept help when it counted. Just not always when it came to more minor issues. He had his pride, dammit. “Fine. Doesn’t mean I want to tell people about it.”

Peter squinted a bit, contemplative, and Bucky raised a challenging eyebrow. “Do you think he’ll get tired of you if you have too many problems?” he inquired, accepting that challenge.

 _Yes._ Bucky had already put Steve through so much trouble, and he’d rather avoid adding onto the long list. Almost dying twice, trying to kill him, running away and hiding while his friend searched for him, all the trouble associated with his recovery—oftentimes, he couldn’t fathom why Steve still put up with him. Sometimes, he managed to remind himself that he would do the same for Steve. “Is that why you don’t want us to help you?”

“That would imply that I care about your feelings.”

“And saying you’re happy for me doesn’t?”

“That’s—” The kid’s cheeks reddened. “That’s different. I didn’t mean that in a—a personal way. More like a general statement.”

“Yeah, sure.” Never mind the fact that Peter, by his own admission, seemed to take Bucky’s mere existence personally due to how it impacted his own life. But Bucky would let him off the hook for now. “What’s your plan, then? Refuse to cooperate until they have no choice but to give up on you?”

He didn’t expect to receive such a blunt answer: “Yes.”

Bucky scoffed. “If you’re not going to cooperate, then at least try to escape. It’d be more interesting than sitting here twiddling our thumbs indefinitely.”

“But what would I do if I succeeded? Turn around and walk back into custody? I have no interest in freedom. And won’t the building be mad that you’re telling me that?” As though expecting FRIDAY to scold them, Peter glanced around the room.

“The building can deal with it.” Bucky knew that the AI didn’t typically pay attention to or record personal conversations, but considering the kid’s status as a prisoner, the rules pertaining to him might be different. Either way, escaping wasn’t a concept the man hadn’t brought up before—so did it really matter? “Anyway, you may find that Steve’s unbearably stubborn. He won’t give up as easily as you think he will.”

“He’s deluding himself,” Peter mumbled.

“Yeah, that makes two of you.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s not like he’s the first person to try and help me. I don’t think I’m delusional for not wanting it to end up the same way.” At Bucky’s brief, curious hum, he sighed, and with feigned cheer, he repeated something he said before. “On good days, one of my handlers would call me C-6. Or, to be more technical, my old tutor. Love makes people do irrational things, remember? That guy.”

In that case, Bucky supposed it was more of an affectionate nickname than a mocking epithet—and that using section C-6 of the parking garage may have been in poor taste. Well, there was no taking it back now, and at least it wasn’t _his_ idea. “What were the good days?”

“When the guards weren’t breathing down our necks. Or watching our every move. When he could speak a little more freely.” Peter offered a soft shrug. “He… was someone they coerced into working for them—in the science division—and they didn’t really trust him, but I was too smart for my original tutor. He had a son who was sick. More than what normal treatment could fix, so Hydra—they stepped in. Offered help. And they did. Kept him healthy but dependent. My tutor hated them for that, but he wanted to save his son, so…”

At this point, the Avengers’ theory was that Hydra still had agents planted within the government, and they used their connections to foresee raids and move around important people and documents to avoid information from being uncovered; after all, they couldn’t destroy everything every time. On the other hand, they must have caught someone off guard in the most recent raid—otherwise, they wouldn’t have been lucky enough to get Peter.

Connections in the government could also assist in finding other people weak to coercion.

“Anyway, uh… I messed up one day—messed up a mission because there would’ve been collateral damage, and my handler got tired of the whole emotions thing. That was the first time he suggested putting me in the chair, but I was a weak kid, so my tutor protested the idea. Insisted it’d kill me. I guess he thought—hoped—that the work he did for them was valuable enough to allow him… input. But it wasn’t. And they…” Trailing off, the kid swallowed thickly and stared at the tile floor. When he continued, his trembling voice was barely audible. “It wasn’t quick.”

Of course Peter didn’t want help—and probably didn’t want to be associated with anyone at all. Certainly, he assumed he’d just be getting them hurt or killed. Bucky stayed quiet as he considered his next words. This wasn’t a conversation he expected to have at god-knows-o’clock. “If it’s any consolation,” and it likely wasn’t, “Hydra would love to torture the Avengers to death whether you’re involved or not.”

“Maybe. But at least it wouldn’t be my fault.”

And, suffice to say, Bucky understood the sentiment. The only idea that haunted him more than the thought of Steve dying was the thought of being the one to kill him; he still had nightmares of the events on the helicarrier, terrible what-ifs flooding through his mind. Of all the atrocities that Hydra forced him to commit—that would have been the worst by far. “I get it, Petya,” he said softly. “I’ve been where you are. Romanoff’s been where you are. Hell, Stark’s been there too.” Not that he’d ever discussed it with them before, but he knew—he heard plenty. “All we can do is try to be better.”

Peter’s shoulders sagged as he sighed, his head hung low and his gaze fixed to the floor. Bucky could see the moment where he forced himself to think about something else in the way he perked up abruptly—ever-so-slightly. “You sound different when you talk about him.”

“Who?”

“Cap.” Not wanting to entertain this subject, Bucky refused to comment—but Peter only took that as an invitation to keep speaking before the man could interrupt him. “Like how Mr. Stark sounds when he talks about Pepper.”

The man stifled a groan. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

“You just did.”

“I’m going back to bed,” he declared, climbing to his feet and dropping the broken doorknob. Though unsteady at first, he managed well enough.

“I’m not sure why it’s a problem. Cap—”

Bucky emphasized, “ _Bed_.”

Huffing, Peter dropped the matter. As Bucky reached his bed, he called after him, voice soft, “Can I stay here tonight?”

With a glance back at the kid, Bucky sighed. “Yeah, sure.” Peter stood and—as expected—made his way towards the bay window and climbed onto the ledge. Once he was settled, the man climbed under his blankets and closed his eyes, attempting to fall back asleep.

After awhile, he managed.

***

Bucky woke up to three soft knocks and the door opening just wide enough for Steve to poke his head in. Tense at first, the captain relaxed upon seeing Peter sat cross-legged on the ledge facing the window, and Bucky lifted a hand to wave at him. “Morning,” he greeted, yawning as he sat up.

Blinking innocently, Peter turned his head to look at Steve. “Am I supposed to stay in my room?”

“No, you’re fine,” Steve was quick to reassure with a smile and a wave of his hand. Given that—unless they moved after Bucky left—Peter already slept in the captain’s room before, a sudden rule change wouldn’t make much sense. “You just weren’t where I thought you’d be. Breakfast’ll be ready soon.”

Peter waved at him until Steve nodded awkwardly and ducked out, then stood and walked over to the bed. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Did you get any sleep?”

“A little.” The kid shrugged. “So how often does that,” he gestured towards the man’s metal arm, lowering his voice, “happen? Can you stop it from malfunctioning?”

 _Malfunctioning_ —did Peter think the problem was with the mechanics? Well, he supposed it wasn’t impossible that such a thing could cause him pain, however unlikely or uncommon. “Every few months or so, I guess.” Mild pain happened more often, but his tolerance was high enough that it often didn’t register properly unless it was severe. “And not as far as I’m aware.” But he hadn’t exactly looked for a solution either. As a precaution, he added, “Don’t tell Steve. Or anyone else.”

The kid rolled his eyes. “Right, fine. I’m guessing you don’t want me talking about the other thing either.”

Scoffing, Bucky poked his forehead. “There is no _other thing_.” Rather than engage Peter’s dubious snort, he stood, grabbed fresh clothes, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and change. When he stepped inside—and before he closed the door—he frowned at the useless scrap of metal on the tile.

Apparently, Peter followed him over to the doorway, which Bucky failed to notice until the kid spoke up. “I can fix that if you want,” he offered, quiet and hesitant.

“I’ll fix it.” Even if he had to ask Tony for tools and a replacement knob—well, Bucky figured the chances that FRIDAY _didn’t_ inform the billionaire of the property damage were slim to none, and he might be walking into a wildfire as soon as he left his room. Or maybe a contained fire, since Steve hadn’t seemed terribly concerned for his safety. Before Peter had a chance to argue, Bucky stepped towards him, placed his hands on the kid’s shoulders, turned him around, and gently pushed him away. “Go brush your teeth and get ready for the day.”

Though Peter huffed, he complied, exiting Bucky’s room and presumably returning to his own, and the man heaved a sigh as he returned to his morning routine. Despite his headstart and quick movements, he arrived in the kitchen to see Peter looking at something over Steve’s shoulder; based on the somewhat surprised way the captain glanced up at him, however, the kid likely only just got there.

Natasha and Tony were halfway through eating, and the former glanced between Peter and Bucky. “Your breakfast is getting cold. I made ham and cheese crepes,” she informed them, which they took as permission to go and serve themselves. Steve stood as well—because, predictably, he waited for them. Bucky suppressed a fond roll of his eyes.

Occasionally, Bucky forgot that Natasha was an excellent cook who could craft cuisine to go along with every language she spoke, a multi-talented super spy if ever there was one; while he’d been treated to her food once or twice before, she seemed to cook more out of necessity than for enjoyment, and she didn’t often share this skill. Today was a lucky day.

Breakfast passed by uneventfully. Before Peter could try and assist with the cleanup, Natasha gestured for his attention and pulled out a deck of cards that she either brought with her or found laying around. “Do you know any games?” she asked.

Peter shook his head as he shifted in his seat, but right when Bucky opened his mouth to express interest in remedying this tragedy, Tony cut him off. “Oi, Klondike.” He nodded down the hall before he started walking away, a clear indication for Bucky to follow—into the line of fire, he presumed, though he offered no resistance and instead obliged without comment, ignoring Steve’s concerned look. They made their way to a room away from where they spent most of their time, and the former Winter Soldier recognized it as a lab. “First thing’s first,” the billionaire began, not unkindly, “I hope you know how to fix the doorknob.”

Tony appeared calmer than Bucky expected him to be, which only served to make him warier. “Yes, I was going to ask you for the parts.” While he was more used to fixing cars than doorknobs, he doubted it’d take much effort to figure out, and when Tony gestured towards the prepared parts the table, he reached out to pick up the new knob. In his right hand, naturally. “Sorry for breaking it.”

“Trust me, I’ve done far worse. Both to my own house and others’.” The billionaire scoffed, picking up a screwdriver and fiddling with it, and after a moment, he pointed it at Bucky—or, more specifically, his left arm. “FRIDAY said you had some sort of… episode last night.”

Bucky frowned. “I told her not to say anything.”

At the same time, Tony was overwhelmingly self-assured and reluctant. “And if it was _just a cramp,_ she wouldn’t have. She’s programmed to look after the well-being of everyone in this house, and protocol dictates she inform me of any issues. You were in too much distress to override that.” The screwdriver bobbed up and down as though to trace the length of the man’s arm. “I was just about to send Rogers after you when the kid showed up. So what is it—phantom limb pain?”

Maybe Bucky should be more grateful for Peter’s interference than he realized. He debated lying, brushing off the subject, or minimizing the issue, but by then, he knew that Tony rivalled Steve when it came to stubbornness. And if he brought this conversation up, there was likely a point to be made. “Probably, yeah.” In the end, he figured that he might as well get this over with. “It messes with the sensors that tell my arm how to move,” he set the knob back on the table, “since I guess they’re not designed for that sort of input.”

“There are probably ways to fix that. Some sort of physical therapy—Wilson might know more about it.” The billionaire gestured vaguely before dropping the tool on the table and moving to the other side of the room, and he pulled something out of a drawer and tossed it to Bucky, who caught it with ease. “In the meantime, you can have that.”

Bucky studied the small, leather-covered box for a moment, then opened it up to see a vial and a syringe. The vial had a label that listed chemicals he didn’t recognize. “What’s this?”

“Super soldier painkiller,” came the swift explanation, “since I’m assuming normal medicine doesn’t work for you. Well, I’m not sure it’ll work on phantom pain, but it’s better than nothing.”

Closing the case, Bucky pursed his lips. He knew that Tony didn’t exactly care for him—and he had perfectly good reason for that—and over the past few months, he’d become accustomed to keeping a polite distance. Certainly, the billionaire could’ve pretended not to know about his episode, yet he went through the trouble to prepare this for him. Bucky supposed it wasn’t unlikely that the vial was there for Steve, but either way, the means weren’t the important part. “I appreciate it,” he said after a moment, “but… why?”

He didn’t deserve it, an old voice taunted. After all he’d done, he didn’t deserve this sort of kindness, this caring—if it could be called that in the first place. It made more sense for Tony to hate him, to never give that a second thought and only act civil for Steve’s sake. Bucky understood that: it was plain and simple.

Neither of them wanted to have this conversation, if the billionaire’s heavy sigh and flitting eyes were anything to go by. Still, even though the words sounded like they caused him physical pain, Tony forced them out. “Because the sight of you pisses me off and I don’t trust that the Winter Soldier programming is completely gone, but—but the Bucky Barnes that Steve would risk so much for… well, he’s not too bad to have around, I guess.”

They were generally on the same page, or at least on the same chapter; maybe not surprisingly, it was the positive part of the statement that Bucky found himself disagreeing with, though he hoped there was some truth to it. He stared down at the case, scratching the leather lightly as he attempted to think of some coherent response.

When none came, Tony cleared his throat. “So how’s Peter?” he asked.

“You weren’t eavesdropping?” Bucky raised an eyebrow at him.

“Only enough to figure out what was wrong with you. And to make sure the kid was safe.” The billionaire _almost_ sounded apologetic when he added that last part, but it wasn’t like Bucky hadn’t been concerned about it as well.

The former assassin sighed as he thought back. “Hard to say,” he muttered. “I think I’m making progress sometimes, but then he refuses to listen or changes the subject.” He understood where the kid was coming from—when he and Steve first had the chance to reconnect and get to know each other again, he’d been much the same way—though that did little to ease his worry. Not for the first time in his life, he found himself cursing how stubborn people could be. Which included himself. “When this is over, he’ll need a great therapist.”

“If he ever lets it _be_ over.” Tony leaned against his workbench.

“He might.” When or how, Bucky couldn’t say for sure, but it _would_ end eventually.

The billionaire gathered up some supplies in a box—to take up to the living room with him, most likely—and rolled his eyes. “Just make sure you save your kidnapping plan as a last resort, yeah?” he reminded as he rummaged through his stuff. “Last thing I need is Rogers whining about how much he misses you.”

Though he stiffened, Bucky managed to keep the emotion off his face. “I told him he could come visit,” he said with feigned lightness. As much as he kept thinking about that idea, however, he knew he couldn’t abandon Steve to go on the run with a kid he’d barely known for a week. But if Steve wanted to come with them…

“Either way.” Tony shrugged, and once finished with filling his box, he stood upright with it in hand. “If that’s all, I’m going back upstairs.”

Bucky merely offered a shrug in return as he made to leave, then took a detour to his room to place the case in the drawer of his bedside table. An unexpected gift, yet he couldn’t deny that it comforted him to know he had a solution—though, injecting it himself might not be the easiest thing, but he’d cross that bridge if and when he came to it. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself before venturing back to the kitchen.

Peter, Steve, and Natasha were in the middle of a game—which he recognized as Cheat after a few moments of observation—and Tony sat to the side waiting for a new round to begin; however, that could take awhile, given that they appeared to be at an impasse. Steve had the most cards left while Natasha had the least, but while losing, the soldier had the distinct advantage of knowing what cards the others had and the memory to call them out on lying before it could be glossed over.

“That’s what your problem is,” Peter was saying, only half paying attention to the game. “Hydra’s been around for way longer than you realize—they know how to survive and hide. Even if you cut off the head, as you’ve done several times now, the roots remain.”

Wondering how they arrived at this subject matter, Bucky took a seat next to Steve, who looked over and smiled, though he could see the question in his friend’s eyes. Thanks to the distraction, Natasha got away with lying, and she offered Bucky a sly grin before returning her attention to Peter. “In other words,” she concluded with a thoughtful hum, “it’d be best to take out the roots before we cut off the head. That way, they have nothing to fall back on.”

That was the ideal, yes. But they didn’t have any good enough leads that would allow them to target said roots—they were too well hidden. Information from someone within the organization could put them well on their way, however, and everyone in the room was quite aware of that.

The kid shifted uncomfortably at the attention, clearing his throat and calling, “Cheat,” when Steve attempted to put down five fours. Given the jokers and how many cards he had, it was a believable claim, but he’d always been a terrible liar. Well, simply knowing of a four Steve didn’t have would produce the same result.

When Bucky and Peter took to distracting Steve with various comments and questions, Natasha’s victory was assured—much quicker, at least. The next game turned out even messier.

***

Despite Peter’s many glances towards Tony’s half-hearted projects and the billionaire’s attempts to engage him, the kid refused to act on his apparent interest and either sat with his head resting in his arms or staring out the window when left to his own devices. This went on for a couple days.

Steve quietly excused himself after breakfast one day, only for Peter to stand up and trail after him. While he’d gotten used to the kid following his lead when it came to activities—cooking, cleaning, whatever else he felt necessary—this was the first time Peter left the room with him, and the soldier wondered if it had anything to do with avoiding Tony, if his temptation was getting a little too much.

Though curious, he continued to walk in silence, waiting for Peter to say something—if anything. What he didn’t expect was for the kid to _do_ something. Steve paused upon feeling a touch to his hand, light and brief enough that he might’ve missed it if he were any less alert, and the only evidence that it happened was Peter’s hand half-raised towards him; however, he dropped it back to his side as soon as Steve looked over.

While Peter never objected to Steve patting his shoulder or ruffling his hair, he never reached out himself, and instead, he seemed to actively avoid touching people. It reminded the soldier of how Bucky was about his metal arm, so he had a decent idea of why Peter acted that way: because he thought he’d just hurt the other person.

“I don’t mind, you know,” Steve told him softly after a moment of debate, holding his hand out with his palm up. For a moment, Peter stared down at it blankly—then huffed, his fingers twitching and his eyebrows furrowing into a scowl. A brief flash of anger flitted through his eyes, though Steve couldn’t tell who it was directed towards, and it dissipated just as quickly, replaced by something sheepish and apologetic. Lowering his hand, the soldier decided to let it go for the time being and continued leading the way to his room. He gathered a change of clothes once inside. “I’m just taking a shower.”

Something he usually did _before_ making breakfast, but when he woke up to a hungry teenager curled up by his window, he figured a change to his routine couldn’t hurt. Peter nodded and sat by the door to the bathroom, leaning against the wall and pulling his knees up to his chest—which was more or less the intention. Steve knew that Peter hadn’t been afforded much privacy in Hydra and therefore didn’t quite grasp the concept, but while the lack of it didn’t exactly bother the soldier, he figured he should teach the kid the boundaries that normal people tended to abide by. Whether he understood the reasons or not, he learned quickly.

Steve usually took quick showers, but when he had a lot to think about, he allowed himself to linger for longer; in this case, he spent a good few minutes debating how best to handle what happened in the hallway, and once satisfied with his plan, he finished up, changed into fresh clothes, left the bathroom, and took a seat next to Peter, who glanced over at the motion. He stayed silent for a moment, giving the kid a chance to speak up if he wanted to, then took a deep breath.

He stretched his legs out in front of him, hands resting in his lap as he spoke. “It’s okay to be angry. At Hydra, at us, at yourself, at the world. You’ve been through a lot, Peter.” A frown tugged at the kid’s lips, but though he looked away, Steve wasn’t discouraged. “Everything that’s happened to you—it’s not fair, and it’s not fair that you have to deal with the consequences. I think you’ve more than earned an outburst or two.” He glanced around the room. “Well, there’s not much to throw around in here. The bed and dresser, if you really want…”

A snort—something close to amusement, Steve was sure—escaped Peter. “You want me to tear up your room?” he asked, dull yet lighthearted.

“I want to help you,” came the soldier’s simple response.

Peter looked back at him, scrutinizing the warmth of his slight smile. “I don’t want to break anything. Or… hurt anyone.”

Steve nodded, as that was an answer he’d come to expect over the past few days. “You can be angry without doing those things. The important thing is that you don’t stew in your anger or let it control you. Turn it into something productive, even that just means drawing a picture or baking cookies. How’s that sound?” At that, he lifted one hand, palm up, and held it in the space between them.

Pursing his lips, the kid stared at the offering. “Sorry if that’s kinda hard to believe,” he mumbled. “Years of—years of being told that I’m a tool, a weapon, just meant to hurt people, you know. And I still think you’re deluding yourself.” _Still?_ Steve couldn’t recall being told that a first time, though he supposed it’d been implied. “But I… I guess I can humor you a little. Since you’re not exactly fragile.”

If his many fights with Hydra didn’t prove that fact by now, Steve didn’t know what would—even if he wasn’t nearly the strongest person around.

Peter took a deep breath, and his hand trembled as he lifted it. A featherlight touch followed by him snatching his hand away like it burned, another breath, another touch, and this time, he let his hand rest on Steve’s palm, gradually relaxing a little. His skin was softer than the soldier expected from a Hydra assassin; idly, he wondered if the kid’s healing factor was thorough enough to prevent callouses—which certainly wasn’t the case for Steve—or if it had something to do with being able to stick to things.

Though Steve instinctively wanted to close his hand around Peter’s smaller one, he resisted the urge because he doubted the kid would welcome the gesture. “See?” he prompted instead. “The world didn’t end just because you reached out.” He kept his phrasing vague on purpose with the hope that it’d prompt Peter to reach out emotionally as well.

As though he expected something bad to happen, Peter kept his nervous gaze fixed on their hands, and after a lingering moment, he pulled back, sighing. “Yeah, sure.”

“And if you want, you can build gadgets with Tony. You’re allowed to.”

“Why?” Peter scoffed and bit the inside of his cheek. “If SHIELD locks me up, I’ll never be able to do it again, and if Hydra takes me back, they’ll use what I learn from him to hurt people.” Steve opened his mouth, but the kid continued, guessing what he was about to say. “They can turn anything into a weapon.” His mouth hung open, faltering, before he sighed and rested his chin on his knees.

“I won’t let Hydra take you back,” Steve promised, though he couldn’t guarantee he’d be able to protect him from SHIELD. That all depended on the kid’s decisions, after all. “If nothing else, you can at least enjoy it while you’re here.”

Peter shrugged, and after a minute of silence, he stood up. Steve followed his lead back to the kitchen, where the kid took a seat at the table—this time, a little closer to where Tony sat with his tools and tech, though he still settled for watching silently.

It might not be monumental progress, Steve knew, but he was pleased to see some positive movement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! Any feedback is greatly appreciated, and I hope everyone has a lovely day!


	5. oversight.

It was a subtle difference.

Peter tended to keep a fair amount of distance between himself and others—for reasons Bucky was all too familiar with. Every movement he made reflected this habit, from not sitting in a seat directly next to someone, walking two or three feet behind whoever he followed, watching Steve’s cooking demonstrations from further away than necessary, to his hesitation to play Slapjack when Natasha tried teaching him.

Bucky kept a mental list of the kid’s habits and mannerisms; that way, picking up on changes to his behavior became easier. He noted how Peter always ate what was served without complaint and never asked for more, how he always shifted his weight to his left foot before his right, how carefully he studied a person before asking a question, and how he tensed up whenever someone corrected him, among other things.

At first, he barely noticed the difference as he watched Steve and Peter cook dinner together. Natasha and Tony had snuck off to the part of the house that was farthest away from the kid, which Bucky interpreted to mean they were talking about sensitive issues, and that left him sitting at the breakfast bar with nothing better to do.

It started with Peter standing an inch closer to Steve than he usually did, which gradually evolved into two inches, then three, then four, and it culminated in the kid leaning in to watch Steve strain pasta, just close enough for his shoulder to brush the soldier’s arm. After that, he stepped back to put a little more distance between them, but not nearly the normal amount. Steve glanced down at him but didn’t comment—which was for the best, really, since the kid was rather skittish.

Bucky made a mental note to ask how Steve accomplished this, whether Peter had some inherent trust in him due to the whole _antithesis of Hydra_ thing or if the captain said or did anything in particular. Maybe it was a combination of both. Either way, the fact that Peter initiated physical contact without extenuating circumstances impressed Bucky, even if he didn’t want to fluster the kid by pointing it out. He wasn’t quite sure if that’d help or hurt, given his reaction towards previous attempts at praise.

After a couple more minutes of Bucky watching, Peter looked over at him and made a face while Steve turned away, then dropped the expression into something far more innocent when the captain turned back. Bucky, in turn, stifled a scoff.

“FRIDAY,” Steve said with a glance towards the ceiling, “can you let Tony and Natasha know that dinner’s almost ready?”

**“Of course, Captain Rogers.”**

Peter finished plating everyone’s food by the time the two arrived back in the kitchen, and without preamble, Tony walked over to the kid, plopped a hand on his head, and asked, “Hey squirt, do you want to see your file?”

Though Bucky suspected that they were discussing whether or not to tell Peter about his past—a subject they previously shelved and were liable to return to at any point—he wasn’t sure if they’d come to an agreement, since they still weren’t sure how he’d react to it; however, leaving the decision up to the kid himself was a reasonable conclusion, especially now that he had a few days to settle down and grow more comfortable.

“My file?” Blinking a few times as he processed the question, Peter tilted his head as well as he could.

Natasha looked at the billionaire with the barest traces of reproach, so perhaps they hadn’t quite agreed on the matter—at least not on the blunt way of bringing it up. As he continued setting the table, Steve watched the conversation, lips pursed.

“Yeah, your file,” Tony repeated. “Your full name, where you’re from, family history, all that. Do you want to see it?”

Because Bucky knew how much easier sorting out his memories and former identity would have been if he had a file to go off of, he couldn’t help but feel a little jealous that Peter had the chance for a starting point, though he brushed the thought aside just as quickly; after all, he didn’t want to dwell on that when he was more happy for the kid than anything else. Besides, he started with a name as well—it wasn’t _nothing_ , just not as convenient as an entire file.

Peter stared up at Tony, and after a moment of chewing on his lip, he shrugged. “No, not really. You actually looked for it?” Scrunching up his nose, he shook his head before anyone could answer him. “Anyway, uh… we made dinner.”

Tony dropped his hand to the kid’s shoulder and let it linger there before patting it twice and stepping away. “So I’ve heard. Anything good?”

“Smells good,” Natasha complimented as she took her seat at the table, and everyone moved to join her—Peter audibly shuffling his feet. Most of them wasted no time in eating; however, after a couple minutes of the kid doing nothing but push a piece of pasta around his plate while he stared blankly at it, Natasha spoke up again. “It’s delicious.”

When the statement went unacknowledged, Bucky frowned a bit while Steve attempted to prompt a reaction by adding, “Peter made the sauce by himself.”

Startled out of his reverie, the kid flinched, ducking his head and mumbling incoherently. His muscles tensed, wound up and ready to escape if necessary, and after a few seconds, he composed himself enough to stammer, “Um, I’m—sorry,” followed by shoving a bite of food into his mouth.

The team exchanged glances. This could either be a good thing or a bad thing, Bucky figured: showing his emotions more freely, especially in a group setting, could mean the kid established some amount of comfort or trust in them, though it could also indicate that he felt even worse than they presumed. That he reached some sort of breaking point, in other words. But, well, whether good or bad, they couldn’t help him unless he opened up, and this could be progress.

“Peter,” Steve, who sat closest to the kid, began softly, “is something wrong?” On instinct, Peter shook his head, then sighed as he offered the tiniest of nods. The captain allowed a lapse of silence before he continued. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“We don’t bite,” Tony added. “Usually.”

Peter didn’t answer right away, instead taking a few more strenuous bites of his pasta and scratching at the table with his free hand. The others—aside from Steve—continued eating as they waited, and eventually, the kid sighed again, heavier this time. “I just—I’m wasting your time, and…” Trailing off, he bit his lip.

Natasha reached across the table to place her hand on top of the kid’s, causing it to still. “You’re not wasting anyone’s time. You’re a human being, Peter, not some broken tool we’re trying to fix. We don’t mind if it takes you a little while to open up, or even if you never do. That’s _your_ choice.”

“You’ll get in trouble if I don’t, though, and if I do,” Peter refuted. “That Ross guy—he’s probably super pissed, and Hydra might be looking for me too. This is just… really frustrating, ‘cause now I’m in a position where you guys’ll get hurt no matter what I do. And at least SHIELD won’t—won’t…” Swallowing thickly, he took a deep breath. “And if you tell me that you can fight Hydra but’ll have to answer to SHIELD, then it’s not really _me_ making the choice, is it?”

And really, there was hardly any way to argue that. Bucky—and everyone else, hopefully—knew going into this that it’d be difficult, that treating the kid with human decency wouldn’t guarantee his trust or cooperation. There wasn’t a way to make a flawless plan out of a situation this messy, and they could only do their best with what they had.

It’d be easy to grow impatient with the situation, but in the end, that would do far more harm than good; after all, it wouldn’t make them any better than the government agents willing to resort to torture in order to get what they wanted, nor any better than Hydra forcing the kid to push far past his limits to get results. The Avengers knew that—having taken in and helped people with questionable pasts—but convincing someone like Ross was practically impossible.

Steve leaned a couple inches closer as he acknowledged, “It’s not the best situation, no, and your choices here _are_ limited. I know it’s not ideal, but you _will_ have more of a say once this is over. It’s worth taking the chance.”

“Controlling my own fate.” Peter mumbled the words so quietly that it’d be easy to miss them—a comment entirely to himself. Clearing his throat, he spoke louder. “But, uh, where would I go? I don’t really… know anything about—life, I guess.”

“You can stay at the Compound for as long as you’d like,” came Tony’s prompt offer, “until we can sort something else out. Or if you want to stay there permanently. We’re not going to just leave you on the street to figure everything out for yourself, Pete.”

Bucky smiled at the kid, a gesture he hoped was reassuring. “Yeah, squirt, we’ll support you.”

Belatedly, he remembered a certain comment— _I doubt we want the same thing_ —but before he could give it much thought, Peter shoveled the rest of his food down his throat and fiddled with his now empty plate as he said, “Thanks. I’ll, uh, think about it.”

Bucky, at least nowadays, tended to avoid hoping for too much; he preferred logic and realism because he otherwise felt like he was taking the world for granted, like mindlessly trusting that everything would turn out okay meant that he didn’t understand the effort it took to _make_ things okay. Realistically, he knew it _was_ possible for the kid to recover from what he’d been through and build a new life for himself, and while he didn’t want to get his hopes up, he couldn’t help but note the baby steps taken towards that goal.

“Oh,” Tony perked up as he appeared to remember something, “I have a present for you. Barnes said he’d show you popcorn, right?” Peter nodded once. “Well, you can’t see it in the bags they usually come in, but I found a thing of old-fashioned kernels. The ones these geezers are more familiar with.”

Peter glanced towards Bucky, whose lips quirked up slightly. “Guess I found some.” Even though he imagined fulfilling the small promise would involve taking the kid to a grocery store, this way worked well enough. And with luck, he’d be forgiven for not getting the kernels himself.

The billionaire, gathering up all the now-empty plates and striding into the kitchen, was quick to continue with, “I also got actual popcorn ‘cause it tastes better without the extra effort of making your own topping. Then again, you might like the bland old stuff better.” After unceremoniously sliding the dishes into the sink, he rummaged through the cabinets to produce a plastic tub of corn kernels that he then placed on the counter by the stove. “Knock yourselves out. We can have a movie night once you’ve made snacks.”

With an encouraging nod, Bucky led the kid into the kitchen to get this show on the road, though Steve was quick to come up behind them and keep a careful eye on the operation, to which Bucky scoffed as he placed a pan on the burner and turned up the heat. Since it made the most sense for everyone to share one or two bags of _actual popcorn_ , he took a single kernel from the tub and placed it in the pan.

While Peter watched intently, Tony and Natasha moved to observe with less enthusiasm, more interested in the kid’s reaction than anything else. The kernel popped a moment later, and despite flinching back slightly, Peter’s eyes widened as he promptly reached out to pick it up, scrutinizing the food.

“It’s pretty interesting science,” Tony commented with a warm smile. Whether or not he actually thought so, he appeared to enjoy himself as he explained it to the awed kid. Steve glanced between Peter and the tub as though he wanted to ask if they were going to pop more, but instead of interrupting the conversation, he settled for simply screwing the top back on and leaving it on the counter—though he did make sure to turn the stove off. Fire safety and all that.

Bucky stifled a snort. What a dad.

Meanwhile, Natasha went about making a bag of buttered popcorn in the microwave, and at a lull in science talk, she mentioned, “There are plenty of good spy movies, if that interests you.”

Though Bucky might’ve previously been concerned about showing him something too close to what he’d experienced in Hydra—that was, espionage and assassination, most likely—he knew thanks to Sam that there were comedic spy movies; something funny that the kid could relate to might impact him more than the ones they’d watched previously, which were mostly just complete fluff. _Those_ must’ve been entirely foreign.

His attention promptly stolen by the popping in the microwave, Peter nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve gathered some healthy snacks as well, which Tony didn’t fail to roll his eyes at, before they headed into the living room with Natasha asking FRIDAY to queue up a couple movies. Recognizing both names as ones he’d seen before, Bucky paid less attention to the opening scene than he did to the kid who settled himself between him and Steve. Peter made sure to keep a few inches of space on either side, hugging his knees to his chest in a way that made him look even smaller. After a few minutes of watching the kid watch the movie and occasionally reach out for a snack, Bucky shifted his focus back to the screen.

Might as well enjoy it while it played. In his peripheral vision, he occasionally noted the kid’s lips twitching up at the funny moments. Perhaps some of the jokes still fell flat due to Peter’s lack of common experiences, but at least he had a better reaction to this than the other movies—or other jokes that Tony attempted to tell.

A brief discussion followed the end credits, then the next movie played. Halfway through it, the kid’s eyes started to droop, attention wavering despite his attempts to stay awake. Over the course of the past few days, Bucky found himself wondering whether or not Peter got enough sleep; after all, the kid was always awake before him—and, well, his sleep schedule wasn’t ideal either.

It took roughly twenty minutes for Peter to lose the struggle, and while he slumped over a bit, he remained upright enough that he didn’t fall against either of the super soldiers beside him; however, Bucky made a mental note of the fact that the kid leaned closer to _him_ rather than Steve, something he’d be certain to tease his friend about later on.

Once the second movie faded out, Tony opened his mouth to say something, only to close it upon noticing Peter sound asleep. With the curt announcement of, “I’ll take him to bed,” Bucky stood and gingerly gathered the kid in his arms. His instinctive fear of hurting Peter with his left hand made him want to rush, but he forced himself to move at a slower pace that hopefully wouldn’t wake him up.

Peter stirred as they reached the door, so maybe Bucky shouldn’t have hoped for too much. But to his surprise, the kid appeared to stay asleep despite the twitch of his brows and mumbled, “No…” That one word was enough to chill the former Winter Soldier’s blood, though he forced himself to ignore the sensation. _Just a nightmare, then._ It could explain why Peter didn’t seem to sleep unless necessary, and it didn’t particularly come as a shock either, everything considered. As Bucky placed him down on the bed, the kid reached out for him. “Don’t… don’t go.”

“I’m right here, Petya,” the man assured, gently patting his head with his right hand. When he attempted to grab the blanket with his left, he noted a slight obstruction: a smaller hand stuck to his wrist. Bucky studied Peter, briefly wondering if he’d woken up, but the limp way his arm hung and the lack of true awareness in his expression said otherwise. With a soft, amused huff, he allowed his thumb to stroke the kid’s cheek until he started to relax. “Trust me, squirt, I’m not going anywhere.”

And he certainly didn’t. He half-expected whatever sticky adhesion to release once the bad dream passed, but evidently, it didn’t work that way; as such, he settled for kneeling beside the bed as he waited patiently, since he refused to intentionally wake Peter up to ask him to let go.

Around fifteen minutes passed before the door opened and Steve peered in, eyebrows raising. “Is everything alright?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

In response, Bucky merely lifted his trapped wrist, which proved to be enough as understanding dawned on his friend’s face. Steve smiled as he nodded and backed out of the room, and based on the various footsteps he could hear, Bucky guessed that the others had decided to call it a night as well.

And really, this was far from the most uncomfortable way he’d fallen asleep.

***

Bucky woke with a start. The feeling of being watched brought back an old, bone-deep paranoia, but when he lifted his head to find the source, he sighed upon realizing that it was only Peter sat in front of him. “Christ, Petya,” he muttered, dropping his head back onto his arm, “you’re gonna give me a heart attack like that.” He didn’t need to see Peter to know the kid flinched, and he was quick to raise his hands placatingly. “Hey, it’s fine, no harm done.”

“No, I shouldn’t have been…” Rather than stare at Bucky, Peter dropped his gaze to his own hands, which—fortunately—remained still.

Though the man debated reassurances, he knew Peter would be able to tell if he lied and said it didn’t bother him. “Look, it was just a small mistake. Nothing worth getting upset about.” His heartrate gradually returned to its normal pace, any lingering tension dissolving along with it. Well before dawn, the room was even darker than when he’d entered it earlier.

Silence reigned, and while Peter’s fingers twitched, the man kept an eye on them to make sure the motion didn’t evolve into something else. After a moment, the kid snorted, humorless. “Yeah, I’ve only done about a thousand things that would’ve gotten me punished back in Hydra.” He pursed his lips. “From surrendering in the first place to… just about every time I’ve opened my mouth since.”

Scoffing at his incredulous tone, Bucky shrugged. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t Hydra.”

“Who would’ve guessed?”

“There was a point where I thought this would be worse than Hydra,” Bucky admitted before he could stop himself, which he blamed on the fact that his brain would much, _much_ rather be asleep at the present moment. Ah, no taking it back now. Peter tilted his head, so the man sighed as he continued. “After I left. I’m not sure how much you know, but I hid for two years before anyone found me. Hydra would have just killed me, but the thought of Steve hating me… well, that was worse.”

“He doesn’t,” Peter commented like it was a fact Bucky might not already be aware of.

Bucky offered a halfhearted smile. “For awhile, I didn’t even know why it bothered me so much.”

“Is it because you—?”

“ _Sometimes_ , I still don’t.” The kid pouted, to which Bucky rolled his eyes. “Anyway, things ended up working out. Better than I could’ve imagined, really.” And there were plenty of people he owed that to, people he hoped to pay back one day. How he ended up surrounded by so many compassionate fools, he had no clue.

Peter forced his hands apart, tucking them beneath his knees. “Which is how you know things can work out for me,” he concluded. Bucky started to confirm, only to be cut off when the kid abruptly asked a question. “Do you want to know a secret?”

Unexpected, but this sounded promising. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m afraid of spiders.”

Bucky stared at him, blinking slowly. “Spiders,” he repeated.

“Yeah.” The kid shivered as he recalled, “There was one in here for a few days. A little tiny one. It’s gone now, though. Guess it wasn’t catching any flies.”

Maybe Stark had some cleaning robot that came and got rid of it. Bucky had to wonder if this fun fact held any significance, but either way, it might explain his penchant for sleeping in other people’s rooms. Or was this some sort of metaphor? Did teenagers speak in metaphors nowadays? “That’s good. Might’ve realized that it belonged outside.”

Peter hummed. “Could be. Uh, you can—if you want, you can go back to sleep. I didn’t… didn’t think you’d wake up.”

As if he meant to check the room for spiders, Bucky glanced around. “You’ll be alright? I don’t mind staying.” Granted, he was more concerned about Peter having another nightmare than anything else.

“I’ll be fine.”

A moment passed as Bucky studied him, and once he decided that the kid would be fine without supervision—aside from FRIDAY, anyway—he stood, gently ruffled Peter’s hair, and returned to his own room to sleep, still wondering what spiders had to do with anything.

***

If only because Peter wasn’t at the table by the time Steve came out to greet everyone, he wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or relieved to hear that the kid actually slept in his own room last night. Probably the latter. When he was halfway through cooking breakfast, he looked up to see Peter wander in, hair mussed like he’d been running his hands though it. Upon noticing everyone’s attention on him, he hastily attempted to straighten it out.

“Um, hi,” he squeaked out. Lingering by the hallway, he made no move to sit down, instead glancing between them and scrutinizing their appearances. Tony eagerly downed his first cup of coffee, Natasha scrolled through the news with absentminded intrigue, Steve flipped an omelet before it could burn, and Bucky quietly observed—nothing out of the ordinary. Peter cleared his throat before continuing. “So, just to clarify—you guys are serious, right? About, you know, everything?”

Assuming _everything_ included taking down Hydra and protecting Peter, Steve confidently affirmed, “Yes, we’re serious.”

Peter shifted his weight as he nodded, swallowing thickly. “Right, right, okay, so… My old tutor—well, he wasn’t exactly loyal to Hydra. He had a sick son, they coerced him by offering him treatment, kept him alive but dependent, and he hated them for it. He worked in their science division, and for the most part, they kept him in the dark on the important stuff. Except he knew that Hydra could cure his son, so he… looked for the cure.”

“Did he find it?” Tony asked when the kid trailed off.

“No. I don’t think so, at least. But he did find other stuff. The, um, important stuff. Shipping manifestos, correspondences, maps, that sort of thing.” Wringing his hands, Peter let his mouth hang open for a moment before pursing his lips. Once Steve finished breakfast, he placed his palms on the counter and leaned in as he waited. The follow-up statement didn’t disappoint: “He wrote as much as he could down in a notebook and had me memorize it.”

The billionaire was on his feet in an instant, striding over, patting Peter on the back twice, and settling an arm around his shoulders with an elated grin on his face. “That’s great, Pete! How—?”

“But,” the kid cut off his excitement, “it’s a few years old and I… don’t know how much of it I can even remember. I mean, they put my head in the blender _because_ he might’ve told me something he shouldn’t have.”

That phrasing felt like salt on an open wound, but Steve brushed it aside. “Is there any way we can help you remember?” _Please say yes._ With his stubborn hope so close to paying off, he didn’t want this turning out to be a dead end—especially for Peter’s sake.

Rubbing at the tattooed spot on his wrist, Peter glanced back at Tony. “Do you have a notebook and pens? It might help if I write down what I do remember.”

“Whatever you need, kid.” Before Steve could suggest eating breakfast first, Tony left the room in search for the requested items, muttering something about going old school. Peter shuffled to the table and slunk into the seat next to Bucky, while Steve plated the food and brought it over.

For a long moment, they picked at their breakfast in silence before Natasha inquired, “How’d you sleep last night?”

“Uh… fine.” Peter squirmed in his seat, focusing intently on his omelet. “The—the bed’s soft.” Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, he didn’t elaborate. It almost seemed like something grander should have happened between last night when he still refused to open up and now when he offered what he knew; however, perhaps this had come on gradually, and maybe he wasn’t quite as stubborn as he made himself out to be. Whatever nightmare he had could’ve impacted his decision as well.

As they finished eating, Tony returned with an armful of notebooks and pens—surely every single one in the house—which he unceremoniously dumped on the table near the kid. “Will any of these work?”

Using a notebook similar to the original could help jog his memory, as they’d learned with Bucky. Something about the same size, same number of pages, the same binding—any of those should be useful. Peter sifted through the various journals before picking out a medium-sized black one, then grabbed two pens, black and red. “Yeah, I,” he mumbled, “think this should work.”

With a triumphant nod, the billionaire put the rest of the supplies away in a nearby closet while Steve went about washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen—the team generally trying to give Peter enough space—and though he tried not to be too intrusive about it, he watched as the kid opened the book and first began numbering the pages; rather than regular digits, however, it seemed to be some sort of code, the first page marked with _C-6_ and continuing from there.

It looked to be a more complicated version of what Peter did to recall personal information, so Steve wondered if he’d given his tutor the idea for it in the first place. Perhaps they’d developed the code together.

At some points, Peter ducked his head close to the book while writing like he couldn’t see from a normal distance, and once he numbered the last page, he let out an exasperated huff, then flipped to somewhere in the middle and started writing.

The process took all morning and afternoon. Hours of changing positions, switching pens, remembering one thing in the middle of writing another, taking breaks because his head hurt too much—but he powered through it. When he finished at last, he closed the notebook and collapsed against Steve, who sat next to him reading a novel. “Cap,” he groaned, muffled by him talking into the soldier’s shirt, “there’s supposed to be two of everything, right?”

Setting his book aside and accepting the journal handed weakly to him, Steve used his free hand to brush his fingers through the kid’s hair, gently massaging his scalp. “Are you alright?”

“I think my brain’s melting out of my skull.” Peter lifted a hand to pat around his nose and ear, which the soldier cracked a smile at. Since he’d heard unpleasant stories from when Bucky tried to force himself to remember something—or when someone else forced him to—he could imagine how terribly painful it must be to do that for several hours. “I think I… gotta skip dinner. Nauseous.”

Steve glanced over towards Natasha, who’d taken it upon herself to start cooking, then at Tony asleep on the other couch and Bucky playing Solitaire at the table, and sighed, recalling how Peter nearly threw up after eating lunch earlier. “Guess you’ve earned a break, huh?” As he set the journal on the armrest, he made eye contact with Natasha, and she nodded—a silent promise that she’d come pick it up. “Do you want to go to bed now?” he asked, returning his attention to the kid. “It’ll be darker in your room.”

“Pretty sure,” Peter continued to mumble, shifting against Steve in an attempt to make himself more comfortable, “everything’s right, but… stuff I’m not sure about’s underlined in—in red.”

“You did a good job, Peter.” From the glances Steve took, there appeared to be quite a lot of useful information within the pages; if nothing else, it made for a good starting point. Carefully, he gathered Peter in his arms and stood from the couch, smiling at Bucky and Natasha before making his way down the hallway to the kid’s room and setting him down on the bed once inside. “Can I get you anything?”

Peter lifted a hand halfway towards him, only to let it fall after lingering midair for a moment. “Uh, there’s more… but it can wait, I guess. From—you know, my missions and…” Biting his lip, he swallowed thickly. “That’ll be easier to remember, though, unlike,” he gestured towards his head, “this.”

Steve smiled. Well, he certainly didn’t envy the migraine Peter must be suffering with, and he wished they had any medicine that might work on him. Maybe the painkiller that Bruce and Tony developed for the soldier, but he—unfortunately—didn’t carry any of that around with him. “We’ll handle that tomorrow if you’re feeling better,” he assured, reaching out to pat the kid’s head one last time. “For now, get some rest.”

“Okay.” Peter managed a weak smile in return. “Thank you.”

On his way out, Steve asked FRIDAY to do what she could to make the room dimmer and more comfortable, and he reached the kitchen just in time to hear Bucky ask Natasha if spiders were a metaphor for anything. “Kid told me he’s afraid of spiders,” Bucky elaborated as he looked over to Steve. “How is he?”

“He’s… alright,” was the best the soldier could come up with. He shrugged. “Seems to be in good spirits, at least. I hope that means he’s happy with his decision.” Because there was still the possibility that Peter would regret telling them, but Steve hoped that wouldn’t be the case.

“This tutor of his must’ve been pretty sneaky,” Tony commented from where he stood flipping through the journal. “There’s some good stuff in here. Even if it is a little outdated—well, like he said, this’ll help us target the roots. So Romanoff, you want to take this to Fury tomorrow? It’s probably not a good idea to take the kid back yet. Maybe once we look into this,” he shook the journal, “a little more, we’ll be able to butter up Ross enough to guarantee his safety.”

A couple nods followed. “Better sooner rather than later,” Natasha agreed.

Once she finished cooking, Steve helped her serve the food. “Peter said there’s more he remembers from his missions and everything, so don’t leave before he has a chance to write all of that down as well. The more information we have to work with, the better.”

“He certainly woke up in a generous mood today,” Bucky commented, taking his seat at the table.

Tony hummed as he chewed and swallowed the first bite. “The comfort of my beds and my brilliant interior design have that effect on people, yes. Compliments to the chef, by the way.”

Natasha smiled at the billionaire before turning her attention back to Bucky. “Peter’s afraid of spiders?” Sipping her water, she nodded to herself. “It’s a rational fear.”

“Yeah. Said there was one in his room.”

At that, the billionaire sputtered. “Spiders? In _my_ house? No way, certainly not. Must’ve been seeing things. There is no _gap_ where any bugs can get in. If there is, then I’m hiring better architects.”

“Unfortunately, Stark, spiders go where they please.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “And they’re arachnids, not bugs.”

“Semantics.”

***

The next morning, Steve walked into the living room to find Peter filling out another notebook and Tony marching around the house with a feather-duster and a scowl and muttering something about stupid bugs. Taking a seat on the couch next to the kid, Steve snuck a peek at the open pages. On one side was a physical description of a man, a crude sketch, and a note about him being _really mean_ , and on the other side was more in-depth detail about his role in the organization and any personal information Peter recalled.

“Hey,” Steve greeted, resting his arm over the back of the couch. “How do you feel? Did you get enough sleep?”

Peter smiled at him, looked back down at his drawing, then held it up for the soldier to see. “That’s not going to get you any hits in a facial recognition database, will it?”

Avoiding the question, then? At least he didn’t look as exhausted. “No, no it won’t.” While Steve wasn’t one to criticize such things, the style pointed to a complete lack of drawing experience. He looked over at the pile of unused journals on the other cushion, and upon spotting a sketchbook, he reached over to grab it along with a mechanical pencil. “I can help if you’d like.”

“You can draw?” Peter asked.

“Sure, if you can describe who you want me to draw.” While he wasn’t sure how his skill might stack up to an actual police sketch artist’s, he did have years of experience; it was, after all, one of his only past-times he actively worked on improving.

Scooting closer, the kid leaned over so that he could see the blank page Steve opened up to. “Okay, but you better do a good job. Or I’ll… I’ll…” He squinted, but when he failed to think up a clever comeback, he shrugged and moved on. “So this guy…”

Despite his lack of artistic ability, Peter had an excellent memory for faces, which he dictated to Steve in great detail. Each one took awhile, so he started with the most important people: the government and military officials he saw once or twice, his handlers, the bosses. There seemed to be benefits to being viewed as a simple tool—every now and then. Peter divided his attention between talking to Steve and writing more details into his own notebook.

Tony, once evidently satisfied that there were no spiders in his house, settled down at the table to fidget with some invention. At some point, Steve became aware of Bucky watching over his shoulder, and he silently cursed his friend’s ability to sneak up on him. Peter just scrunched up his nose and made faces at them both before continuing on with his efforts.

Only when Natasha entered the room with a box in hand did the kid actually break his concentration. He perked up, notebook forgotten, and twisted around in his seat to watch her set it on the table. It didn’t take long for him to put two and two together. “Are we leaving?” he asked Natasha with forced calmness.

“We’re not.” Stepping over to him, she smiled kindly as she explained, “I’m leaving to take the information you gave us to Fury. Once you’re safe from both Hydra and SHIELD, we’ll take you back to the Compound, but for now, you’re staying here.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. “Oh…” Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. “Um, when are you going?”

Once she had all the information she needed, but that wasn’t a particularly tactful answer. Instead, she smiled and promised, “I’ll stay until after lunch, okay?” At his nod, she glanced back towards the box. “On the bright side of all this, I’ve got some new clothes out of the deal. Stark sure knows how to treat a lady.”

“What can I say?” Tony held out his hands as if to say _of course, of course._ “I’m the best. Though it was a little hard to decide what to get for you. After all, if I chose anything too skimpy, I’d be killed.”

Natasha raised a perfect eyebrow. “By me or your fiancée?”

“Both. You’d surely team up.”

Looking back at Steve, Peter tilted his head, confused, but the soldier merely shrugged. If Peter didn’t understand already, he didn’t need to. “Since everyone’s awake,” Steve interrupted any further argument as he rose to his feet, “I’ll get started on breakfast.”

“Do you know how to make crepes?” Natasha asked, and when Steve shook his head, she opted to teach him.

Peter returned to his notebook, this time with Bucky sitting beside him, though the two stayed quiet as the kid continued writing. After breakfast, Steve went back to helping him with the sketches, and Peter filled out a few more pages before he couldn’t recall anymore details. By lunchtime, he was telling Steve what the low-level Hydra members looked like. And the soldier realized that despite the kid’s claim otherwise, not all of them had dark hair and eyes.

Once lunch came and passed, Peter watched Natasha closely. “You’re really going now?” While he understood the reason and necessity, his shoulders still slumped when she nodded to confirm the answer.

“We’ll see each other again soon,” she was quick to assure.

“Right, yeah, of course.” He moved to stand in front of her, fingers curling and uncurling by his side. “I look forward to it.”

In a quick motion that surprised Steve, Peter stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, and while his posture at first remained tense and unsure, he relaxed minutely when she returned the hug and rested her chin on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” Natasha told him, her voice softening from its usual firmness. “I’ll make sure this all gets done as soon as possible so that you can come home, okay? Wherever that may end up being.”

Rather than trust his voice, Peter simply nodded as he stepped out of the embrace. After allowing her hand to linger on the kid’s shoulder for a moment longer, Natasha bid the others a quicker farewell before gathering her belongings, double-checking that she had all the notebooks, and showing herself out.

A minute of relative silence passed until Tony turned to Peter and effectively broke it. “So, you want to do some science?”

Science, as Steve soon found out, involved making a mess with popcorn kernels.

***

Two days came and went.

Steve exited the bathroom after taking a shower just in time to see Peter climbing onto the ledge, and without bothering to turn and look at him, the kid waved him over. As Steve approached, Peter pointed out the window, finger tapping against the glass. “Look at that butterfly.”

“It’s pretty,” the soldier commented as he took a seat next to him. After two days of Peter sleeping in his own room, it was almost odd to see him in here—of course, Steve didn’t mind either way. “Do you know what kind it is?”

“Uh… a small white one?” The answer apparently held little interest to him, given that he didn’t bother to ask the AI that’d be able to tell him. “Did you know that caterpillars dissolve when they’re in the cocoon?” he questioned instead. “FRIDAY told me that. It’s a step in the whole transformation process. They just melt into this weird goo before becoming solid again.”

That was certainly news to Steve, and he couldn’t tell whether the fact made him more or less interested in biology. But he knew one thing for sure. “I’m glad humans don’t do that.”

Peter pulled his knees up to his chest, quiet for a moment as he observed the soldier before he ducked his head and chuckled into the back of his hand—something soft and genuine and _normal_. While he smiled a decent bit, it’d been some time since he laughed. And possibly the first time it wasn’t laced with some level of bitterness or sarcasm. “It’d be funny, though,” he argued, “if it happened.”

“Well, I guess that’s about what the serum felt like,” Steve allowed, smiling in return. “I don’t _think_ I actually melted, at least.”

“I’m glad that—um.” Peter cleared his throat, and his smile faltered as his brows furrowed. “The accident…” From what Steve read over his shoulder, the kid didn’t include the details of his abilities in any of the information he wrote, a fact that he drew no attention to; after all, he wasn’t too fond of the idea that government scientists would try to recreate his abilities either. Peter took a deep breath, and before he could stop himself, he rushed out, “Long story short, I got bit by a radioactive spider.”

At one point, Steve thought that nothing could surprise him anymore. It didn’t take long to realize how wrong that assumption was—and continued to be. “Did it hurt?” he asked after taking a moment to process the statement.

Peter nodded, which made sense. “Not at first, but it made me really sick. Then I got better, and, well, I’m sure you can guess.” As he spoke, he picked at his sweater sleeves. “The spider… came out of an OsCorp lab. Not something I was supposed to be around, but I think it escaped on one of the scientist’s labcoats. Then jumped on me when I bumped into him. I, uh, tried to keep it a secret, but…”

But his scars healed. It probably didn’t take long for his handlers to notice that even if he _had_ managed to keep his strength in check. New powers, however, weren’t the easiest thing to get used to, and that probably went double for sticking to things.

“And as if I wasn’t confused enough already,” the kid laughed again, empty and sarcastic this time, “this happened right after Sergeant Barnes defected. So… not a great time.”

“On the bright side, you weren’t bitten by a radioactive butterfly.”

“Yeah, at least there’s that.” Peter sighed, shifting his gaze from his hands to the trees and finally back to Steve. “You’re right—about Hydra trying to make another super soldier serum, I mean. That’s originally what they were going to give me when they finished it. If they did.”

Steve recalled when Bruce went on some nervous ramble how different combinations of enhancements could breed disaster; as such, he figured that the spider bite eliminated the possibility of Peter ever being given the serum. And in the end, Hydra must’ve been more satisfied with the enhancements he _did_ end up with. Steve sighed. “Well, let’s hope they still haven’t finished it. That’d certainly make my job easier.”

Peter’s expression softened, and he nudged Steve’s leg with his toe as he quipped, “And you know how much Hydra _loves_ making your job easier.”

“I wish.” Chuckling, Steve watched Peter for a moment before looking out the window. The butterfly had since left, though he spotted a few squirrels running around in the trees and heard a bird or two singing. “I’ll do my best to make sure anyone coerced into working for Hydra is treated fairly,” he started, the thought coming to mind suddenly, “after they’re taken into custody.”

“Thank you.” The corners of Peter’s mouth twitched upwards. “I figured you must be cool since my handler always complained about you, but… thanks for proving me right.”

In that moment, the compliment caught Steve off guard—specifically, how genuinely happy it made him to hear. There were plenty of things he came to expect since becoming Captain America and doing his best to save lives, and he was no stranger to gratitude; however, with the tension of the past couple weeks and the weariness of the past several months, he almost failed to realize how much he’d come to care about Peter.

It was a good thing Peter thought he was cool because he intended to stick around for awhile. As long as the kid would have him, really. “You’re pretty cool yourself, you know,” Steve returned. “Are you hungry, Peter? It’s probably about time to eat.”

Peter nodded and hopped off the ledge, leaving Steve to follow him as he wandered to the kitchen, where Tony and Bucky sat at the table and breakfast bar respectively. While Steve went about cooking, the billionaire beckoned Peter over to show him some science experiment involving magnets—which lasted until the moment Bucky moved to a seat close enough for the kid to stick one of said magnets to his metal arm. At that point, the experiment was abandoned in favor of measuring the exact distance at which the magnets would start rolling towards Bucky, who sighed and accepted his fate.

Steve offered him reprieve in the form of food, but before he could move away after setting down the plate, Bucky grabbed his wrist, snatched the magnets away from Peter, and pressed them into his friend’s palm. Smiling apologetically at the kid, Steve slipped them into his pocket and sat down with his own breakfast.

“Romanoff called this morning,” Tony said conversationally. “She and Fury work fast. Sounds like they’re making progress in tracking down Hydra bases and personnel. Once we cast the net, we’ll be able to swoop in and finish the job. Speaking of, I’m almost done drafting the proposal for your pardon, squirt. Exciting, right?”

Peter’s chewing slowed, and he nodded upon finally swallowing. “That’s—uh, yeah, really exciting. I appreciate it—everything. You guys have done a lot for me.”

“Anytime,” Bucky assured. “As long as there are no magnets on my arm.”

The kid snorted out a laugh. “Well, no promises, then.” Biting his lip, he looked back at Tony. “So are you, uh, going to talk to Ross in person, or…?”

The very thought made the billionaire grimace, but necessity was necessity. “I’d rather not, but yeah, this sort of thing is best done in person. I’m trying to be vague about your whereabouts, and if I, say, video call him, he’ll try to track down our location. My tech’s better than his, of course, but why take the risk? It’ll be lonely without me, but Wilson and Barton’ll help fill the void.”

“Okay. That’s fine. Just—make sure you don’t leave without saying goodbye, okay?”

***

After three hours in his lab talking to Fury and Natasha, Tony returned to the living room and promptly passed out on the couch, across from the armchair where Bucky sat reading silently. Steve worked on cleaning the already spotless kitchen, occasionally glancing over at Peter, who sat at the breakfast bar eating an apple as he observed the soldier’s restless behavior.

Admittedly, Steve had never been the most patient person—not when it came to himself, at least. Since before his body even had the energy to persist, his mind always pushed him to move and work and improve; post-serum, it became easier to keep up with himself, though the excess energy only made him antsier when he _had_ to stay still. Especially when he was eager to finally dismantle Hydra for good and keep the promise he made seventy years ago.

He moved on to rearranging the cabinets once he couldn’t possibly clean anymore, pulling items off the shelves and placing them on the counter. At some point, Peter hopped down from the stool and came to stand next to the oven, his fingers wrapping around the handle. It took another minute for him to speak. “Is Mr. Stark going to be mad at you for that?”

Steve huffed softly. “As long as he can find his coffee in the morning, I doubt he’ll mind.” It wasn’t like Tony spent much time in the kitchen to begin with, and on top of that, he _did_ plan to leave tomorrow. The soldier paused to study a jar of cinnamon sticks, listening to the gentle thump of Peter pulling the oven door an inch open and letting it go. It surprised him, somehow, to hear the kid making unnecessary noise. “Are you hanging in alright? I know a lot’s been happening pretty fast.”

“I’m good,” came the immediate answer before Peter tilted his head, mulling the question over more. “I’m… good, yeah. Lighter. Uh, relieved, I guess would be the best word.”

“Good.” An easy smile slipped onto Steve’s face; it certainly pleased him to hear that, and he hoped that the positive mood stuck with the kid. Less mechanically than before, he returned to reorganizing, which Peter watched with wide-eyed curiosity. “I usually go for runs in the morning,” he explained after a moment, “but it’s been a few days. I’m just getting a little restless.”

Peter gave a slow nod. “Is that why you stay up late pacing in your room?”

Halting his progress, Steve furrowed his brow and cocked his head. Peter wasn’t wrong—far from it—but that he was aware of it to begin with surprised him; after all, he only did that when he was alone, and he made sure to stay as quiet as possible. Tony’s walls weren’t exactly paper-thin either. “Yeah.” No point in denying it. He glanced over his shoulder towards Bucky, who pretended to ignore them. But it’d been awhile since he turned a page. “Sorry if it keeps you up.”

“No, it’s fine. I only hear it when I listen for it.” Before Steve could properly register the words, Peter shrugged and carried on speaking. “I get kinda unnerved when it’s too quiet, so… background noise is good.”

That wasn’t so bad, then. At least that he found the sound comforting—potentially due to trauma surrounding sensory deprivation. Most likely, in fact, given their first conversation. “Well, if you ever want some company, my door’s always open.”

At that, Peter smiled, small and soft. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised, dropping his gaze to his hands when the soldier returned the gesture with a smile of his own. He took a deep breath before he started again. “So, after everything, what do you do for… uh, fun?”

 _Not much._ Steve thought back to Sam’s question on what made him happy, and even after all this time, he hadn’t quite found the answer; the closest he came was spending time with his friends—and Bucky in particular—but it didn’t feel like the proper response. There was always either work or a polite distance involved. “You mentioned the ocean, right?” he redirected instead. “We can go there.”

The kid’s fidgeting stilled, and a second passed before he mouthed the word _we_ to himself—once, twice, three times. His lips parted, lingering until he cleared his throat. “Right, yes, I… I’d like that.” He looked over at Bucky, then leaned in closer to Steve and lowered his voice. “Is his arm waterproof?”

“I can still hear you,” Bucky informed, deadpan.

“Is your arm waterproof?” Peter asked, blinking innocently.

Bucky rolled his eyes, gaze still fixed to the book in his hands. “Yes.”

Peter turned his attention back to Steve. “He can come too,” he decided, as though the soldier _wouldn’t_ invite his best friend. Huffing his amusement, Steve reached up to ruffle his hair—which the kid didn’t stiffen at even slightly. “And we… is everyone?”

“If you want.” Steve hummed as he placed the spices neatly in a new cabinet. “I’m sure they’ll all like you, kiddo.”

“I hope so.” Though Peter bit his lip, his eyes held a glimmer of anticipation. It’d be nice once they weren’t constricted to one house; Tony’s interior design was lovely, but the world had a lot to offer—things Steve looked forward to showing Peter.

Absentmindedly, he wondered if that answered Sam’s question.

***

Two days.

Tony could hardly believe that just two days ago, he was constantly stressing over if and when the kid would decide to open up, to help the Avengers put an end to Hydra, to help _himself_. And if he was that worried about it, he could only imagine how much pressure Steve—the team’s actual mother hen—felt. After over seventy years, the captain finally uncovered the key to taking down the organization that plagued humanity for far too long; the end was finally in sight.

And, well, the billionaire discovered that he liked having someone other than Bruce to talk science with. If the scraps he kept in this house impressed Peter so much, he looked forward to seeing the kid’s reaction to his actual lab at the Compound. Peter was smart and showed plenty of potential—maybe enough that he’d be able to keep up with Tony once given the chance to learn properly.

Overall, Tony felt good about the current situation. Relieved, like a weight had finally been lifted after months of carrying it around. This time when he tossed and turned in his attempts to find sleep, it was more excitement and less anxiety; however, the moment FRIDAY’s alarm sounded, he wondered if he made a minor oversight.

**“Boss, Peter has injured himself.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c


	6. enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a final warning, please note that this chapter deals a lot with suicide! If you're particularly sensitive about that subject, you should be able to skip either the first section (where the attempt takes place) or just the whole chapter while still getting the gist of what's going on. Take care of yourselves, my friends!
> 
> I love to hear what you guys think; any and all feedback is super appreciated! Enjoy! :3c

Tony entered the bedroom just in time to see Steve and Bucky dragging Peter out of the bathroom—away from a mess of blood and broken glass.

Not bothering to look up at the billionaire when he froze at the sight, Bucky merely demanded, “Grab a towel,” without emotion; with all his attention focused on keeping the thrashing kid under control, he couldn’t afford to feel much of anything. Magnetic panels in the floor helped keep Peter close to the floor, but even then, the two super soldiers struggled to hold him down. Damn this kid’s strength.

Through all the blood, Bucky could just make out shards of glass still imbedded in his palms and fingers, and there were cuts above and below his cuffs—deep enough to make the intention clear. The mirrors were supposed to be shatter-resistant, but evidently, that meant nothing to Vibranium.

When Tony returned with the towel, Steve took it and wrapped it around the kid’s wrists as best he could, murmuring reassurances that were drowned out by Peter’s yelling. Much of it came out frantic and disjointed, though some phrases were clear. Unmistakable. _Let me go, let me go!_ Bucky did his best to tune it out. It wouldn’t help.

After all, if he listened to how desperately Peter wanted them to _let him die_ , he might become tempted to release the kid.

The panels were even but not constant, likely due to lack of material, which made for some jerky movements; at one, Peter took the chance to swing his hands up, metal cuffs colliding with Steve’s face, while the momentum brought his head back to slam into Bucky’s jaw. The force behind it wasn’t enough to stun either for more than a second before they strengthened their grip, focused on keeping him still now that they’d reached the center of the room, dimly illuminated by the moonlight.

Vaguely, Bucky was aware of Tony using his Iron Man gauntlets to help hold down the kid’s legs, and he hated this. Hated tightening his grip, hated the metallic smell, hated the grating desperation in Peter’s tone, hated to see him injured, hated to think that he might be making it worse. Hated the idea that Peter didn’t _want_ to live. Hated that the idea that his pleased smile when Steve complimented him, that nudging Bucky’s metal arm with quiet concern, that asking Tony question after question about physics—that it was all a distraction. To make them think he wasn’t going to do _this_.

Did it mean anything? Bucky hated the question. Did any of it matter?

“Peter, it’s alright,” Steve attempted to soothe, only to receive a pained whine in return. “It’ll be alright.”

Bucky started counting the seconds.

“It _would_ be alright,” Peter countered, “if you just let me—”

Five, six, seven, until minutes began passing, maybe an hour, until he lost count and restarted. Begging, repetition, reassurances, talking in circles. Peter’s fists clenched and unclenched and his attempts to free himself gradually weakened. Given the red-soaked towel, Bucky wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to a fading will or to blood loss—or a combination of the two. Maybe with some exhaustion thrown into the mix as well. Eventually— _eventually_ , finally, the kid’s muscles gave out and he slumped back against Bucky, who had his metal arm wrapped around his torso. “There, Petya,” he murmured, rubbing circles into Peter’s arm with his right thumb.

Unfortunately, Peter’s decision to wear short sleeves left him with a complete view of the bruises his grip caused.

His gauntlets depowered, Tony stood, mouthed something about how he’d be right back, and stepped out of the room. Steve loosened his grip as Peter stared at him, eyes hazy. The soldier tried again: “If there’s something wrong, we can talk about it, okay?”

“I wish you didn’t stop me.”

“And I hope that one day, you’ll be happy I did,” Steve returned evenly, glancing up as Tony reentered the room with a first-aid kit and towel and handed them over. Bucky carefully peeled the old towel away from the kid’s wrists and replaced it with the fresh one, and Steve opened the kit with one hand and rummaged around to find the tweezers. “FRIDAY, please turn on the lights. Peter, can I please see your hands?”

Peter’s fingers stayed curled over his palms for a long moment before he grumbled something incoherent and hesitantly opened them up, wincing. “You’re wasting your time.”

Steve held the kid’s shaky hands still with one of his own—the position awkward thanks to the cuffs keeping his wrists stuck to the carpet—as he inspected them. “I don’t see it that way. This is going to hurt,” he added with a sympathetic glance, “so let me know if you need a break.” Peter didn’t respond as the soldier went about carefully removing glass shards, though Bucky could feel him tense up, feel the way his shoulders trembled. Tony retrieved another towel to put the pieces on and catch the blood that welled up and slid down his skin.

By the time Steve finished, Peter took to squeezing his eyes shut and occasionally gnawing on his lip hard enough to break skin. For a minute, Bucky assumed he was ignoring them, but the way he squirmed uncomfortably when Steve started unwrapping bandages to use confirmed that he was, in fact, still paying attention; nevertheless, he offered no resistance to the soldier patching up his injuries.

Once done, Steve rested a hand on the kid’s shoulder—likely not as comforting as he meant it to be. “How are you feeling?”

Without bothering to open his eyes, Peter twisted around in an attempt to turn away from him, though the closest he could manage was to lay on his back with his arms pinned to one side, closing his hands back into loose fists once more.

“You should probably get some rest, huh?” Tony asked upon clearing his throat, voice full of feigned lightness. Bucky could see by the tension in both his and Steve’s eyes that neither of them quite knew how to handle this situation—and to be fair, neither did Bucky. Aside from just keeping the kid alive until he calmed down and hopefully felt like talking it out. “The bed’s definitely more comfortable than the floor, though. FRIDAY?”

**“Yes, boss.”**

The cuffs detached from the floor, though when Bucky took the cue to pick the kid up and carry him over to the bed, he could almost swear he felt a slight pull, like the AI was fully prepared to reactivate the magnetization if Peter began struggling again. Safety measures and all that. As an extra precaution and dubious comfort, he kept his metal arm loosely around the kid’s shoulders upon settling them both down on the bed.

Steve and Tony quickly and quietly went about cleaning up the mess left behind before bringing two chairs from the table into the room to sit and help keep an eye on the kid. Bucky couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment Peter fell asleep—or passed out—but if he knew one thing, it was that it’d take him a long time to do the same.

If he managed to rest in the first place. With _that_ image now burned into his mind, he didn’t want to close his eyes out of fear that it’d replay over and over and over again. So he ignored his exhaustion as best he could, instead focused on watching the kid’s chest rise and fall: a reminder that he was still there, _alive_ , whether he wanted to be or not.

***

Tony stayed in the room for as long as he could—long enough to see both super soldiers’ eyes finally drift shut after hours of stubbornly staying awake. As much as it pained him to take his eyes off the kid, he had official business to take care of. And Fury would probably want to hear about this little… incident. Whether or not he left later that day as planned, well, he didn’t want to think about that now.

The edges of his vision blurred as he made his way down to the lab and sunk into his chair, but it wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation; rather, he had plenty of experience disregarding it. Pulling several all-nighters in a row while working on inventions tended to have that effect.

All too soon, a hologram popped up over his desk, the lovely faces of Fury and Natasha greeting him—well, they _would_ if the billionaire didn’t currently have one hand over his eyes as he massaged the bridge of his nose. _“Stark,”_ the director greeted.

“FRIDAY,” Tony said in lieu of returning the politesse, “call Barton and Wilson too.”

The AI sounded unusually somber as she complied, **“Right away, boss.”** Another image came up a few seconds later, of Clint piloting the Quinjet while Sam sat behind him. All eyes were on Tony as they waited for him to get to the point. Because something obviously happened. Because of course something couldn’t _not_ happen.

And as much as Tony wanted to pass the night off as a bad dream—a figment of his imagination, of his paranoia, his fear—he knew that it was very, very real and that it needed to be addressed. Lowering his hand from his eyes to his goatee, he reported, tone grim, “Peter tried to kill himself.” For their part, the recipients of this information neither overreacted nor bombarded him with questions, instead waiting patiently for him to continue. But god, he wished there was _something_ to distract him. “He punched Rogers in the face and headbutted Barnes. Under any other circumstances, that’d be hilarious, but…”

 _“Is he okay?”_ Natasha asked after a moment of silence.

“I guess.” Tony shrugged—because he really, truly had no idea. _Okay_ could mean a lot of different things. “He’s asleep now, and his—injuries aren’t anything that his healing factor can’t handle.” If the kid could heal from such a serious knife wound in less than a day, then the physical aspect of it wasn’t a problem. He paid no attention to the subdued nods he received in return. “No clue how he’ll feel once he wakes up. I don’t get it,” he rambled, “’cause he seemed so… happy. Before.”

 _“Unfortunately,”_ Sam began, _“that’s not uncommon. Sometimes, if someone’s planning suicide, they do appear more happy and relaxed, but it’s not because they’re actually doing better. It’s relief that there’s an end in sight.”_

The billionaire’s hand dropped to the table, items shifting slightly thanks to the following thud. “So, what? That’s it? We can’t trust it when he seems like he’s in a good mood?”

Sighing, Sam shifted his weight. _“Maybe not right now, no. Mental health is tricky—which is why I’m hoping you’re looking into finding the kid a therapist.”_ Tony nodded to confirm; he’d been screening possible psychologists ever since Bucky mentioned the issue several days ago. Perhaps he’d ask Sam for final approval. _“There should be a point once he opens up more where we’ll be able to tell that he’s genuinely improving. For now, we need to be patient and supportive.”_

Once Tony relaxed minutely and properly looked at the video calls, he noticed the tension in Natasha and Clint’s brows and how their lips pressed into thin lines, whereas Fury and Sam appeared more neutral. Of course those two would take the news particularly bad, considering Natasha’s weak spot for children and the fact that Clint’s oldest son wasn’t much younger than Peter. This likely hit too close to home for both.

 _“We’ll be there in a couple hours,”_ Clint informed the billionaire.

As Tony nodded, Fury brought up the question he’d rather avoid: _“Are you still coming back to talk to Ross about the kid’s pardon?”_

“Depends,” Tony decided with abrupt finality, “on what Peter says. If nothing else, it wouldn’t hurt to wait another day or two.”

The director nodded. _“Keep us updated.”_

“Will do.” On cue, the calls ended, and Tony slumped back in his chair, rubbing his hands down his face as he groaned. “If I stand up,” he considered, “I’m going to fall flat on my face.” The pounding in his skull and deep-seeded weariness in his muscles guaranteed it. He tilted his head back. “FRIDAY, don’t let me sleep through anything important.”

**“Understood.”**

***

Bucky’s eyes snapped open when he felt a slight shift. Tensing, the kid stilled, and Bucky patted his shoulder gently in an attempt to reassure him. After a moment, Peter began squirming backwards as he tried to get out from underneath the metal arm; while the man briefly debated tightening his hold, he decided that Peter seemed sluggish enough that letting go couldn’t hurt. Plus, his wrists and ankles were still stuck together.

Rather than sit up, Peter merely turned onto his other side—to see Steve asleep in a chair a few feet away. And the yellowing bruise that marred his cheekbone. “Your face…” he croaked, hoarse and scratchy and weak.

It was just loud enough to rouse the captain, who leaned forward in his chair and not-so-subtly scooted it a few inches closer. He kept his voice soft as he greeted, “Hey, Peter.”

The kid’s fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out and inspect the damage, only for his attention to shift instead to the bandages, and after staring at those for a few long seconds, he looked back at Bucky, frowning as he noted the half-healed cut on his lip. Whether due to shouting so much the night before, dehydration, or a combination of both, he couldn’t seem to manage anything above a whisper. “I’m sorry…”

“Yeah, you’ve got a pretty hard head.” Steve pursed his lips at Bucky’s comment, but Bucky ignored any reproach in his friend’s expression. Sitting up, he nudged Peter’s shoulder. “Speaking of, what’s going on in there, kiddo?”

But he wasn’t lucky enough to receive an answer; instead, Peter just curled in on himself and focused instead on the bandages, poking at the red spots dotting them absentmindedly. After watching for a moment, Steve took the opportunity to leave and bring back a glass of water, though when the kid didn’t take it when offered, he sighed and set in instead on the bedside table. Moving his chair close enough that his knees brushed the sheets, he sat back down. “If those are bothering you,” he reached out to tap the gauze, “I can take them off or change them.”

Peter snatched his hands away like the touch burned, panicked, and held them close to his chest. “No,” he snapped, then quieted down to a whimper, “no, no… no one’s ever…”

Cared enough to treat his injuries? Unfortunately, Bucky could imagine that—especially given his healing factor. His handlers likely just saw it as a waste of time and resources to help him, but healing fast didn’t equate to not feeling pain. And Bucky hated the idea of Peter tending to his own wounds, cold and alone in some dark cell.

Placatingly, Steve held up his hands. “Hey, that’s alright. We’ll leave them, okay? Why don’t you have something to drink? I brought you a glass of water.” He gestured towards it, and the kid looked over, only to respond with a tiny shake of his head. They lapsed into silence, giving him a chance to change his mind—but that didn’t happen. “Peter,” the soldier tried yet again, “if you tell us what’s wrong, we can help you.”

“But you’ll need to talk to us first,” Bucky added.

The kid took a deep breath, pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m scared.” He barely mouthed the words at first, but as though he felt the need the stress their emphasis, he repeated them louder. Not by much, but louder nonetheless. “I’m scared. Really, really scared.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, Steve offered an encouraging nod—albeit not without a glance back at the glass of water. “What are you scared of?”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen.” Peter bit his lip. The marks from him doing that earlier had since faded along with the bruises from being held down—no physical evidence of the night before. “I mean—there’s, uh, what you told me’s going to happen, but—but if it doesn’t…”

“It will,” Steve assured. “We’ll—”

The kid cut him off. “But what if you can’t? I told you. Just ‘cause you want to help—believe you can—doesn’t _mean_ anything. And if you can’t… I don’t want to know that.”

 _I’d rather die thinking that everything will be fine._ Bucky shifted his weight as he considered the implication of the statement. “You like it here,” he concluded. Not a question—just a matter of fact.

Eyes fluttering shut, Peter buried his face into the bedsheet and let out a soft groan. “Yes,” he forced out through gritted teeth, “I do. I like—like helping Cap cook, and watching movies I don’t understand, and speaking other languages ‘cause it’s _fun_ and not ‘cause I have to, and learning physics from Mr. Stark, and—” An abrupt cough brought his rant to an end, yet he still shook his head when Steve held out the water. “I don’t want to go, and… and _that_ scares me.”

Bucky looked to Steve. Because maybe it would’ve been easier to hear that everything had been a lie—that Peter hadn’t actually cared or trusted them—and it might’ve been easier to deal with. But Steve was Captain America who fought against world-ending threats and people who wanted him dead on a regular basis, and Bucky was a former Hydra agent who’d be looking over his shoulder every day of his life.

If Peter was afraid of losing them—well, he had good reason to be. And given how much he’d lost already in such a short amount of time, of course he didn’t want to go through the same tragedy again. And again, and again, and again.

“Petya.” Bucky rested a hand on the kid’s shoulder, and though Peter stiffened, he didn’t shrug it off. He opened his mouth just to close it again, struggling to find the right words. Glancing back at Steve, he could see how even his friend didn’t quite know what to say. As though noticing the same thing, the kid deflated, sighing into the sheets.

Then something clicked. “Everything changes, Peter,” Steve said, a weary undertone preventing him from fully slipping into his motivational voice. “That’s the way life works. It’s all just constant change, for better or for worse. I can’t promise that we’ll always be together because I don’t know that, but I know that I _want_ to stay together. And I’ll do my best to make that happen—as long as you feel the same.”

Peter met Steve’s gaze with something akin to hope in his eyes. A small glimmer, some extra light that hadn’t been there before. And maybe that’d be enough.

In the distance, Bucky heard some noise he attributed to Tony greeting the new arrivals, and he ignored it in favor of giving the kid’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Peter’s glance towards him and following statement were enough to make him forget about it entirely: _“I’m sorry you and Cap can’t do gross adult stuff when you have to watch me like this.”_

Once Bucky forced his brain to resume its normal function, he flicked the kid’s temple, light enough that he barely grazed his skin. Never had he been so _incredibly_ grateful for the fact that Steve didn’t speak Russian. _“No, Petya,”_ he chided.

Steve’s brow furrowed, but Peter beat him to speaking. “But it’s so—”

Unwilling to allow the kid to finish that statement—in _English_ , nonetheless—Bucky swiftly covered his mouth. Just in time for the door to swing open, and out of his peripheral vision, he could see Tony’s jaw go slack, evidently appalled by what he walked in on. Before either had a chance to comment—to defend or to scold—Peter laughed, pressing his hands against his mouth.

Somewhat amused, somewhat manic, and definitely not the sound Bucky expected to hear. It died out just as quickly, and Peter gave Steve a solemn look. “I’m gonna throw up,” he warned, deadpan. The soldier wasted no time in scooping him up and carrying him to the bathroom, closing the door behind them.

Maybe that glimmer in the kid’s eye was mischief and not hope. Bucky cleared his throat as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, sat up properly now as he observed the three who entered the room.

“How is he?” Clint broke the ensuing silence, and Bucky recalled something about him having a kid or two close to Peter’s age.

He shrugged as though to say _who knows_ —because he certainly didn’t. Peter, as he’d figured out, tended to change the subject when he didn’t like the direction of a conversation, and the more distracting, the better. As such, Bucky took that little joke as an indication of the kid’s discomfort more than anything else. The sound of him retching probably wasn’t a good sign either, though the man couldn’t help but listen to Steve gently soothing him.

Tony looked at Sam like maybe he’d have all the answers to this issue, but the airman simply mimicked the shrug. Bucky glanced between Sam and Clint, and in case the billionaire hadn’t asked already, he decided to. “Have a good flight?”

Clint attempted a light smile. “As good as can be expected.” _Given the circumstances._ They must’ve been on their way when they heard the news—because of course they did. Silence fell over them for a few more minutes before the bathroom door opened and Steve carried Peter back to the bed, where he attempted not to slump against Bucky. “Hey kiddo,” the archer greeted him.

Peter’s mouth opened, and a breath that wanted to be a word escaped, followed by a frown. This time when Steve offered him the water, he accepted it, taking careful sips as he avoided the others’ gazes.

“Is your throat okay?” Tony asked with furrowed brows, looking between the kid and Steve. Peter lifted one shoulder in response before dropping it. Sighing, the billionaire knelt in front of him. “Remember how I said I needed to go talk to Ross about your pardon today? If you’d rather—”

“That’s fine,” the kid managed, hardly audible—only to wince a moment later as he realized that he’d cut Tony off. “Sorry.”

If anyone else interrupted him—and under almost any other circumstances—the billionaire surely would’ve responded with some quip, but now, he merely offered a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, Pete. I wish I didn’t have to leave at all, but it wouldn’t hurt for me to stay another day or two.”

Peter shook his head a little too quickly, a trace of panic in his eyes. “No—uh, the… the sooner the better? So…”

Steve attempted to communicate the urgency to confirm the kid’s freedom in a glance, and it appeared that Tony knew him well enough to at least somewhat pick up the meaning, even if he didn’t like the idea of leaving the kid like this. Pursing his lips, he nodded before tapping the cuffs around the kid’s wrists. Since they hadn’t come apart on their own, FRIDAY’s biometric scans must have determined his mood to still be unstable. “If you promise not to give the old man a hard time, I’ll release those for you,” he offered. “Being stuck like that’s not very fun, huh?”

The kid shifted his attention towards Steve, waiting for him to nod his approval before he looked back at the billionaire and gave a soft nod of his own. On silent command, FRIDAY released the cuffs, and Peter twisted his fingers together. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

Tony ruffled his hair before standing back up—not quite as smoothly as he usually would. “Well, how about some breakfast, then?”

Though Peter trailed after the group, it didn’t take him long to tap Steve’s forearm and inform him of an issue. “My stomach still hurts. So you don’t have to make me anything.”

“I’ll make you some toast, okay?” the soldier suggested. “That should be easier on your stomach.” Whether the same rules applied to both sick nausea and anxiety nausea—the kid’s healing factor guaranteed it to be the latter—remained to be seen, but it’d be best for him to eat _something_.

After a moment of hesitation, Peter nodded, slinking into a seat at the table once he reached it. For better or for worse, he appeared to understand the general idea of a _suicide watch_ without anyone having to explain it: he kept his hands laid out in front of him, fully visible, and moved slowly and predictably. Sam and Tony joined him at the table, neither sitting directly next to the kid, while Clint walked into the kitchen with Steve.

Bucky lingered in the hallway. He wanted to talk to Peter, to do something to make him feel better, but he knew the kid needed a break—to recover both physically and emotionally before he could really sit down and process everything. A suicide attempt was, after all, a lot to unpack.

And damn, did Bucky feel _useless_. How could he not see something like this coming? It seemed so obvious in retrospect, that Peter decided to tell all he could and then just kill himself, yet he looked the kid in the eye and saw nothing of it. He supposed that this was the difference between Peter helping _himself_ versus helping _them_ ; the outcome wasn’t the same after all. Somehow, he failed to take that into consideration.

 _Could_ he help Peter? No matter how much he wanted to, it didn’t feel like it. Not at the moment.

Only when the kid caught his gaze and tilted his head towards the seat next to him did Bucky move, sitting in the offered spot. A minute later, Steve set a glass of water and a plate of toast in front of Peter, who carefully picked at the food. Conversation didn’t come as easily as it otherwise would’ve—only Clint and Steve chatted as they made breakfast, which then passed by in nigh silence.

Tony hesitated for a minute before he stood and walked over to Peter, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Guess it’s time for me to get going.” The kid looked up at him. “Don’t worry about a thing, alright? I’m a pretty influential guy, you know. If I want something done, it gets done. Plus, I’ll be able to help Fury and Romanoff find what we need to take care of Hydra. You won’t need to worry about them either.”

“Okay. I’ll—uh, take your word for it.” Peter almost attempted a smile, only to purse his lips together instead as he nodded. Though he still spoke quietly, his voice didn’t sound as weak.

“And just think,” the billionaire continued, “once this mess is over with, I can show you my actual lab. It’s a lot more impressive than what I have here.” Peter nodded again, the slightest bit more eager. Tony glanced around. “If any of these dumbasses bother you, let me know, okay? I’ll sort them out.”

“Language,” Steve halfheartedly chided.

Tony held up his hands. “Hey, the kid swore first.”

“That is a thing that happened,” Peter concurred, “and you didn’t scold me for it.”

Rolling his eyes, Bucky added, “Inconsistent.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Tony.” The soldier scoffed under his breath before reaching out to shake the other’s hand. “Have a safe flight, and good luck. Peter,” he glanced at the kid, “you watch your language too.”

“You’re going to give the kid a hard time _now_?” Sam asked as he cleared the table—of every plate except Bucky’s—and turned on the faucet to start washing the dishes. “Kick him while he’s down, why don’t you.”

Clint motioned an attempt to tell Peter to pout, but the kid just rested his head on his arms, waving as Tony went to grab his things and leave the safehouse. Everything quieted down once more after that: Steve helped Sam with the dishes, Clint took to reading the news, and Bucky watched Peter trace absentminded patterns on the table.

Eventually, Bucky stood to go retrieve the deck of cards Natasha left behind, and he returned with the intention of teaching Peter how to play Solitaire. The kid mostly watched, offering the occasional soft nod as he explained; every now and then, he reached out to make a move when Bucky was evidently too slow. Steve sat across from them to observe, concern poorly hidden behind a feigned smile. Peter flicked a card at him.

“I was about to play that one,” Bucky complained, and Steve slid it back. For the next few hours, everyone quietly did their own thing. Clint found another deck of cards for him and Sam—and sometimes Steve—to play with, and Bucky told Peter about the stray cat that hung around his apartment building in Romania and the street vendor who recommended different foods and recipes for him to try. Which reminded him of something. “How come you’ve never tried teaching me how to cook?” he asked on a whim when Steve stood and wandered towards the kitchen. A glance at the clock confirmed that it was almost lunchtime.

 _He had._ The traces of apology—always present when Bucky said something untrue about his past—confirmed the fact, but Steve never corrected him. “I can teach you now,” he offered instead. Bucky accepted, heading into the kitchen with Peter following. “Pasta’s easy enough. Why don’t you start with boiling some water?”

By the time he finished speaking, Peter already grabbed a pan from the cabinet and handed it to Bucky, who filled it up halfway and set it on the stove before turning the burner on. Steve showed Peter—and Bucky, supposedly, not that he was actually paying attention—how to make the sauce, and after a couple minutes of staring at the water, Bucky inquired, “How do I know it’s boiling?”

“When the bubbles—”

“Stick your hand in it,” Peter suggested.

Shrugging, Bucky dipped his left hand in the pot; this was why he washed them first, apparently. Steve instinctively scrambled to stop him, only to freeze when he realized that it was his friend’s _metal_ hand, the one with no pain receptors or risk of being injured—and Bucky didn’t miss the startled swear that lingered on the tip of his tongue. And he especially didn’t miss the way Peter bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling.

Despite his best efforts, the kid’s eyes still softened. “Cap, you almost said a bad word,” he pointed out because _of course_ he noticed too.

“Jerk,” Steve mumbled, rolling his eyes at Bucky.

Sam turned around in his seat at the table. “Please tell me that Barnes didn’t _actually_ stick his hand in it.”

“You’re outta luck, pal,” Clint told him with a quirk of his brow, to which the airman rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath. After lunch, the archer—fittingly enough—suggested watching a movie or two, which no one put much thought into. Peter dozed restlessly off and on, and the rest were too concerned about his mental state to divide their attention too much.

FRIDAY interrupted the third movie with a somewhat expected announcement: **“Boss is calling. He’s requested to speak with Sergeant Barnes.”**

That earned Bucky some odd looks, but he dismissed them as he stood and made his way down into the lab, where a hologram of the billionaire’s face met him. They greeted each other with curt nods, neither eager to make small talk with the other. “How are things with Ross?” Bucky got to the point instead, settling into the chair.

 _“He’s being an absolute tool,”_ Tony reported, _“and he insisted he was too busy to talk to me today. We’ll meet tomorrow morning. There’s another thing.”_ He paused, and Bucky prompted him to continue with a brief hum. _“Peter said he doesn’t understand much about life, right? I’ve been thinking about it, and telling him that we can decide everything based on what he wants may’ve been a little too… open-ended.”_

“Because he doesn’t know what he wants.”

The billionaire snapped his fingers. _“Exactly! So how about instead, we offer some suggestions, and then he can accept or reject those? Might be a little easier on him.”_

Because Bucky’d had no choice when it came to, well, making his own decisions, he might’ve overlooked how daunting the idea truly was, and he mentally cursed himself for it. Out of everyone, shouldn’t _he_ be the one who knew how to help the kid? “Makes sense. Got anything in mind?”

If Tony was mentioning it now, of course he did. _“As for custody,”_ he shifted in his seat, _“he seems to like Steve the best. And you. Staying with you guys might be what’s most comfortable for him. Cap can adopt him, and you—well, you’re always with him anyway. You can co-parent. Which is not a slight to you,”_ he clarified before Bucky had the chance to take offense. _“It’d just be easier on paper.”_

Not that he _would_ take offense, given that it was a perfectly valid statement; after all, he doubted he’d pass any sort of background check the process required. On the other hand, Steve was practically born to be a father. He’d certainly been acting like one for the past hundred years or so. “That could work,” Bucky mused.

Making sure Peter stayed with someone he trusted—or at least liked—would be far better than sticking him with some stranger, and it was safer as well. Even if the Avengers took down Hydra once and for all, that didn’t dismiss any remaining paranoia. Staying with anyone outside of the team might just make the kid feel vulnerable all the time.

 _“I’d tell him myself, but since he’s in charge of watching the kid…”_ Tony shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. Given the way Peter tended to follow Steve around like a lost puppy, he naturally didn’t want to separate them. Not right now, especially. _“Anyway, good talk. Tell Peter I say hi.”_

With that, the hologram disappeared and left Bucky alone. He sat there for several minutes, still as a statue, until he scribbled down a note and stuffed it in his pocket. Sure, he felt more than a little useless at the moment, but Steve— _Steve_ was warm and strong and could surely help enough for the both of them, despite his humility. And though Bucky thought well enough of the rest of the team, Steve was the only one he truly trusted to care for the kid as well as he deserved. As well as he _needed_.

When he arrived back to the common area to find Steve and Peter gone, Clint didn’t even look up before gesturing down the hallway, so Bucky rerouted to his friend’s room. Steve stood next to the slightly ajar bathroom door while Peter got ready for bed, and Bucky smiled his greeting before handing the soldier the note. Upon reading it, Steve nodded and gave it back just in time for Peter to come out and join them.

“Stark says hi,” Bucky told him, reaching out to ruffle the kid’s hair.

“Hi,” Peter parroted back.

The man smiled. “There should be news tomorrow about your pardon, yeah? Ross just has to be a prick first. Usual stuff, as far as I’ve heard. So, how are you?”

Shifting his weight—first to his left foot, then to his right—Peter tilted his head. “Tired. Uh, really tired. I was just about to…” He gestured towards the window.

Bucky almost wanted to stay in there, keep an eye on the kid all night to make ensure his safety, but he understood that Peter could likely use a little space; besides, Steve was more than capable of watching over him. Especially if Peter was back to sharing rooms rather than hiding in his own.

“I’m sorry.” After the sudden outburst, Peter’s mouth hung open, closed, and opened again. “There, um—there weren’t any spiders. In my room. I just… didn’t want you to think it was weird when I started sleeping in there. So I’m sorry for lying to you.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “I figured there might be something weird about it. But it’s fine, runt. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

Steve glanced between them before resting his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Anything else you need before bed, Peter?” Upon receiving a negative answer, he turned to Bucky, lips quirking up into a more genuine smile. “Night, Buck. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, see you.”

Maybe— _maybe_ —everything would be better in the morning. Bucky supposed he’d have to wait and see; storms came and passed, after all, so maybe they just needed to wait this one out.


	7. dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, I hecked up my own timeline a bit when I stated/implied in the first chapter that it's been roughly two years since Bucky defected from Hydra; it has, in fact, been roughly _three_ , which I've since edited the chapter to reflect. Anyway, these chapters are taking place in June 2017. Another note that I maybe should've mentioned earlier is that due to malnutrition (thanks Hydra), Peter is about three inches shorter here than he is in canon. But he's eating properly now and still has time to grow.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it. :3c

Almost to Steve’s surprise, he slept comfortably throughout the night, only waking for a brief minute when he felt Peter climbing under the sheets. When his eyes fluttered open, the dawn light filtering through the window greeted him, and just before he rolled over to check on the kid, he stopped upon noticing the arm thrown over his torso and the small body pressed against his back.

Absentmindedly, he took a hold of Peter’s hand to inspect his bandages. A few spots of red dotted the gauze, but no more than what he’d seen the previous morning. “Hey, kiddo,” he asked softly, “do you mind if I take these off? I want to make sure you healed alright.” Peter—still at least half-asleep—made some barely audible noise in response, and the soldier figured he could always apologize once he woke up. With as much care as possible, he started unwrapping the gauze below the cuff, where the deeper cut had been; dried blood stuck the fabric to his skin, but it was otherwise smooth, unblemished.

As he started on the next one, the kid’s breathing shifted, and Steve paused when he stiffened—then continued when Peter relaxed again and buried his face between the soldier’s shoulder-blades. The process yielded the same result: barely a trace of his injuries. “Don’t know why you’re bothering,” the kid mumbled after a moment.

Leaving the adhesive bandages around his fingers alone for now, Steve rubbed his thumb against the dried blood, flaking it off. “I care about you, Peter.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Peter tilted his head as though to look him in the eye—or the back of the head, rather. “I’ve healed from worse in less time. You know that. I showed you.”

Steve did indeed recall the first morning at the safehouse when Peter lifted his shirt for him to see that the stab wound had since faded into little more than a pale pink line. But that wasn’t the point. “It means that healing factor or not, I’m going to worry when you’re hurt. How do you feel?”

Peter’s fingers twitched, brushing against Steve’s. “You keep asking that—and I never know how to answer.” A short, considerate hum escaped him. “How should I feel?” he returned.

“I can’t tell you that.” Steve frowned at the idea.

“I mean, you _could_.”

The implication that Peter, at least to an extent, acted and reacted how he presumed people wanted him to—well, it didn’t sit right with Steve. Not at all. “Peter, you’re a human being. I can’t decide how you’re supposed to think or feel. That’s _your_ business. No one else’s.”

Letting out a heavy breath, Peter pressed his forehead against the soldier’s back. “Yeah, yeah. If you keep saying it, maybe that’ll make it true.”

Steve sighed. “Peter—”

“Wait, no, I’m being serious,” the kid interrupted. “I’m actually not making fun of you this time. It’s… kind of nice to hear you say that.”

For the briefest moment, Peter’s fingertips against Steve’s felt oddly different in a way the soldier couldn’t place, and it was gone just as quick. Was that his sticking ability? Either way, Steve doubted it was intentional. “I’m saying it because it _is_ true. You know that, right?”

Peter hummed again. “I know that you believe it’s true. And… uh, I guess I’d rather be more like you than like what Hydra wants me to be? But that might get me a speech about _being myself_ or whatever.”

Partly amused and partly surprised by the statement, Steve huffed out a soft laugh; then again, Peter did call him _cool_ before, right? So really, he shouldn’t be that taken aback. “No, it’s alright to have role models.” And it was more than alright—preferable, in fact—if none of said role models included Hydra agents. “People you look up to, you know.”

“I bet a lot of people look up to you,” the kid mused, which Steve couldn’t exactly argue with. Captain America and all. He went silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, it came out as a drowsy murmur. “You’re really warm. I haven’t been this warm in like… ever. Seems like.”

While Steve hadn’t paid any particular attention to it before, he noted as he fidgeted with Peter’s hand that his skin was cooler than average. A frown tugged at his lips. “Why’s that?”

Peter squirmed a little before chuckling nervously. “Uh, spiders can’t thermoregulate? I’m not, uh, incapable, I don’t think, but it definitely doesn’t work as well as it should. Guess there’s a downside to being part spider—being cold all the time.”

The short sleeves probably didn’t help much either, though he did seem to prefer sweaters overall. This new information more than explained why. “Guess so.” Already, Steve considered what the kid would need to prepare for the winter—jackets, thick socks, blankets—even though it was still months away.

“I, uh… don’t really trust myself right now, so I got in the bed to make sure you’d wake up if I moved.” Peter picked at the adhesive bandages. “Didn’t realize how comfortable it’d end up being. I slept—really well, actually.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I think I’d be happy if I, like, never moved again,” the kid mumbled, and when he lapsed into silence, Steve wondered if he perhaps fell back asleep; if he needed more rest, then the soldier wouldn’t wake him, given that his sleeping habits were questionable at best.

In the following few minutes, Steve took to idly stroking the back of the kid’s hand with his thumb, lips quirking up fondly when Peter let out a content sigh and tightened his grip minutely around him. His thoughts drifted to the night before—when he gave the kid privacy to brush his teeth and change his clothes, and Bucky snuck him a written summary of his conversation with Tony. While he had no doubts about it, he debated the best way to bring it up.

The sooner the better, certainly, though before he could put too much thought into it, Peter spoke again. “I almost did it earlier. After I escaped the truck—when I was alone and no one knew where I was, when I just wanted everything to _stop_. It… would have been easy. A knife, no one to stop me. Was already half-bled out. But…”

“But you came to us instead,” Steve concluded, to which the kid nodded. When Peter didn’t continue, he prompted, “Why?”

Peter inhaled, slow and deep, then exhaled, held his breath. After a minute, his confession came out meek and barely audible: “Because I wanted to see you.”

Over the past several days, Steve spent a considerable amount of time wondering why Peter returned when he made it clear he didn’t want to, and of all the possible reasons he came up with, _that_ was certainly not one of them. He’d hoped to sway the kid with one of his speeches, of course—inspire him to help himself, that sort of thing. It wouldn’t surprise him to hear that his words had an effect on him; after all, a simple statement from anyone could change a person’s viewpoint. But just to _see_ him? Intelligently, Steve responded, “Oh.”

A moment passed before Peter let out a huff of air that gradually dissolved into a giggle he tried to muffle against the soldier’s shirt, shoulders trembling with mirth. Rather than let his arm hang loosely, he wrapped it around Steve like he was trying to cover his own mouth, but he didn’t seem to notice the obstruction. “I can’t—believe,” he wheezed through his laughter, “you’re—you’re so…” As his amusement slowly died down, he relaxed and sighed, giggling again briefly before he settled on, “Endearingly stupid.”

“Yeah.” Steve rolled his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from smiling. “Sounds about right.” While he knew his response had been rather lacking, he couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed—not when it elicited _that_ response.

“I can see why Sergeant Barnes likes you so much.” The comment sounded flippant enough. Absentminded, even, and debatably vague. Possibly well-intentioned.

Steve fought to keep the blush from his face, however futile the attempt, and though tempted to ignore the comment entirely, he opted for what was hopefully a lighthearted, “Yeah, I hope so.” Before Peter could comment further—if he was even planning to—he cleared his throat. Well, if nothing else, this odd turn of conversation left him a little more confident in his question. “Peter, do you want to stay with me?”

The kid stilled for a moment before he shifted, scratching at his bandages. “Um, in—in what way?”

By the way his jaw moved, Steve could tell that Peter was biting his lip. “If I adopt you,” the soldier thought his words over carefully, unsure if the kid even knew the terminology, “then you can live with me in my home. I’ll take care of you.”

Peter scrambled into a sitting position and stared down at Steve, eyes wide in disbelief. “Live—live _with_ you? Like, right there, all the time?”

Rolling onto his back for a better view, Steve met his gaze evenly. “Yes, with me. Maybe not every day because I’ll still have missions, but Buck’ll be there when I’m not,” he explained.

“In your house?” When the soldier nodded, Peter rambled, “’Cause, I mean, I know Mr. Stark said I could stay at the Compound and all, but—that place is huge. He could just… I don’t know, shove me in some random room somewhere and have someone else take care of me—not that I think he would, but it’s possible, y’know, and just—your _house_. How big is it?”

“It’s a one-bedroom apartment.” Steve winced when he realized a possible issue. “It might be a little small, but I wouldn’t mind moving somewhere else.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, you live in a one-bedroom apartment with Sergeant Barnes?”

“Yeah, he sleeps on the couch.” Despite Steve’s many offers for them to rotate who slept on the bed and who slept on the couch, Bucky always turned down the idea—usually with some comment about how he was freeloading to begin with. Which wasn’t accurate, considering the extra money Steve found in his wallet from time to time. His expression softened. “Hey…”

A tear slid down the kid’s cheek and fell onto his hand, and he shifted his gaze to gawk at it. “What…?” Lifting a hand to pat around his watering eyes, he sniffled, incredulous as he studied the moisture now coating his fingers. “I don’t—why?”

Steve smiled. “You don’t have to decide now,” he added, “and you can always say no if you don’t want to. I—” Before he could finish, Peter threw himself onto his chest, and the soldier instinctively wrapped his arms around him, rubbing his back as the kid buried his face into his neck and fisted his hands into his shirt. “Hey, it’s okay, pal.”

“You—you jerk,” Peter complained with no real bite. To no avail, he took a few slow, shuddering breaths in an attempt to stem the flow of tears. “Saying nice things to me like some—some…”

“Punk,” Steve supplied. “I’m not a jerk, just some punk.”

With some combination of a snort and a sniffle, Peter quieted down as he cried, and when Steve moved one hand to card his fingers through the kid’s hair, he leaned his head into the contact. The soldier murmured gentle assurances until Peter breathed deeply, rubbed his nose against the back of his hand, and spoke up again. “Yes.” Though still shaky and hardly above a whisper, his tone held an air of certainty. “Yes, yeah, of course, I—I want to stay with you.”

“Then we can work on making it happen.” Adoption sounded like a lot of paperwork—and SHIELD’s involvement could either make it easier or harder—but Steve didn’t mind; in fact, he was far more excited than anything. “Sound good, kiddo?”

Peter nodded his agreement, then shifted his weight as he picked at the wet spot on Steve’s shirt before using a drier piece of the fabric to wipe any remaining tears from the soldier’s skin. “You know,” he commented after a moment, “my handler, um, used to call me into the office just to make me stand there and listen to him complain. Mostly about you. But, well, I don’t think it really had the desired effect.”

Obviously not. His handler likely meant to push his opinions on the kid—which didn’t work out. Steve tilted his head as a thought struck him. “Peter, you do have some sense of self, don’t you? To reject Hydra’s ideology so thoroughly, you have to have some strong opinions of your own, after all.”

“I guess. Maybe,” Peter mumbled. _I don’t feel like a person,_ he’d blurted out yesterday as soon as the bedroom door closed behind them; perhaps he simply couldn’t tell what _made_ him a person. “I don’t know.”

“You’re also fifteen.” At the kid’s confused hum, Steve elaborated, “I doubt any fifteen-year-old knows who they are or their place in the world. I don’t think most adults do either. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Propping himself up on his elbows, Peter watched him curiously. “Do you know?”

Steve’s lips quirked up. Sure, he thought about it from time to time—what he wanted outside of his job, the difference in what he wanted before going into the ice and since coming out of it, the distinction between Captain America and Steve Rogers—but he doubted he’d ever come up with a definitive answer. Not on everything, at least. “I go back and forth sometimes,” he admitted. At least he didn’t feel like a circus monkey anymore.

“My old tutor,” Peter started with the barest trace of a smile, soft and solemn, “used science as a pep talk. The Law of Conservation of Mass—that matter cannot be created nor destroyed. Said that Hydra couldn’t destroy my heart, and… that it’d always be my best quality.”

By the way the kid spoke of him, Steve had a pretty good idea of this man’s fate, especially if Hydra caught onto his meddling—and he imagined that once the man died, they had no reason to keep his son around. “He was right.” Reaching up, he brushed some hair away from Peter’s forehead. “I’m sure he’d be proud of you.”

“I… yeah. Guess so. The last time I cried was when he—he, um.” Furrowing his brow, Peter swallowed past a lump in his throat as he gestured vaguely with one hand. “Certainly felt like something broke. But—I guess broken isn’t the same as destroyed, huh? One just needs a lot of tape.”

“Good thing I have plenty to spare.” Steve rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze, earning a smile in return.

“You sure you want to adopt me? Taking care of me might be bad for your health.”

“Yes, Peter, I’m absolutely certain.”

Peter searched his gaze—looking for any traces of doubt or deceit, perhaps—before he took a deep breath. “I don’t know yet,” he confessed, “whether or not I’m happy that you stopped me, but I, uh—guess we’ll find out.” The rumble of his stomach cut off any response the soldier might’ve offered, and he smiled bashfully. “And… I’m hungry.”

Steve smiled and patted the kid’s arm. “Then let’s get you something to eat.”

The two made quick work of getting ready for the day, and minutes later, Steve walked into the kitchen with Peter trailing behind him to find Sam cooking while Clint and Bucky played cards at the table. Though Peter faltered briefly at the attention their arrival drew, he cleared his throat and approached Bucky, watching the cards over his shoulder. “You’re just in time,” the man informed him with a glance towards his now bandage-free, sweater-covered hands. “Wilson’s making breakfast for everyone.”

Sam snorted. “Everyone but you.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Peter greeted, cutting off any retort, “Cap made me cry.”

“Yeah?” Bucky spared the kid another glance before turning his attention to Steve, who went to help Sam with breakfast. “Want me to beat the punk up for you?”

Peter followed his gaze. “Huh. Guess he was right.”

At the raised eyebrows he received, Steve merely shrugged, watching as Bucky poked the kid’s side. “Call me Bucky,” he corrected, “or just Barnes. Either way, I’m not a sergeant anymore.”

“Um. Okay.” When Bucky pulled out the chair next to him, Peter took the hint to sit down, and Clint dealt him into their game; however, the kid just fidgeted with the cards more than he actually played.

“I’m almost done,” Sam told Steve, “if you want to grab some plates.”

Once breakfast was served, Clint and Bucky set their game aside, and the archer offered Peter a warm smile. “You know, if the city’s too loud for you, I have a farm out in the middle of nowhere. It’s nice, quiet.”

Peter blinked slowly. “The city,” he repeated.

“Yeah, with Cap,” Clint clarified with a look towards the soldier. Realization dawned on the kid’s face. “He lives in Brooklyn—the city, and everything that comes with it. I have a guest bedroom you could lay claim to. Though you might have to fight one of the younger ones for it later. They’re sharing a room now, but—”

“Barton,” Sam gestured with his fork, “are you trying to steal Cap’s kid before it’s even official?”

His face flushing, Peter ducked his head close to his plate, and though the reaction initially made Steve nervous, he relaxed upon seeing the way the corners of the kid’s lips twitched up—the sheepish excitement in his eyes. “We’ll figure something out,” the soldier promised. “Like I said, I don’t mind moving somewhere else.”

Clint swallowed a questionable amount of food at once. “And I wouldn’t mind tearing down the back wall of my house and building a new room for you. I’ll show you the ropes and all. Demolition’s pretty satisfying, especially when you make something new in place of the old.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t listen to him, kid. His wife’s tired of him tearing up their house all the time.”

“You should flip houses,” Bucky suggested. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind the extra income.”

“I’ll consider it. Maybe once I officially retire.” Clint shrugged, then turned his attention back to Peter. “The offer still stands, even if you just come to visit. I’m sure my kids would adore you.”

Peter looked at Steve, waiting until the man nodded his encouragement before smiling at Clint. “That, um, sounds good, Mr. Barton. But how,” he squirmed, “do you know about that?”

“I told them. Steve and I talked about it last night.” At the kid’s dubious squint, Bucky made a writing gesture with his fork, to which he nodded, mouth forming a tiny _o_. “But for all we know, you could’ve turned him down.”

Sam snorted, lips quirking up in amusement. “Which would have made this conversation far more awkward.”

“Far _better_ ,” Clint disagreed. “But just hypothetically, if you had to pick someone else to adopt you, who would it be?”

Shifting his weight, Peter took a few more bites of his food to delay his answer, gave Bucky a pointed look, then hesitantly decided, “Mr. Stark? ‘Cause he’s smart.” Though that obviously wasn’t the deciding factor, considering his comment earlier; either way, staying with Tony would guarantee more time in his lab, but hopefully not the unhealthy amount that the billionaire tended to spend in there.

For a moment, Clint stared at the kid, then sighed, pulled out his wallet, and handed Sam ten dollars, and Steve wasn’t quite sure what to think of the fact that the two were apparently making bets on Peter’s life choices. Peter watched this interaction, scrutinizing the archer until he shrugged and explained, “I thought you’d say Barnes.”

“And I thought you’d say literally anyone else,” Sam added, “because it’s the only valid answer. You’re smart enough to know that.”

Peter turned his attention to Bucky, who didn’t appear particularly fazed. “Figure I’ll just be the cool uncle,” the man commented neutrally with a glance towards Steve—which didn’t sound quite right. But Steve wouldn’t mention it, even if his enhanced hearing didn’t let him miss the way Peter scoffed under his breath.

When everyone finished their breakfast, Steve stood to gather the empty plates, only to pause upon noticing the innocent way Peter stared up at him. “Did you get enough to eat?” he asked once he had the soldier’s attention.

In all the time spent at the safehouse, not once did the kid ever request more food, and even politely declined the few times Steve offered him seconds; he only admitted to being hungry twice—after his rumbling stomach already betrayed him. While Steve had been gradually increasing his serving size, he suspected that the kid should be eating quite a bit more than he did. “I could go for some more, yeah.”

“If Barnes hadn’t cut into your share,” Sam picked up the plates instead as Peter followed Steve into the kitchen, “then it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Not for the first time, Steve debated the idea of team counselling; as much as he hoped for the teasing to be good-natured, he couldn’t always tell, though he sometimes found himself reassured by smaller gestures—such as Bucky helping Sam wash the dishes while Steve and Peter dirtied a few more making extra food. Though Peter attempted to split it fifty-fifty, Steve made sure the kid took most of it, which earned him a long look and tentative smile.

Steve barely caught it when Clint mouthed something at Bucky: _father of the year_. And though he wouldn’t admit it, he snuck a glance just in time to see his friend’s fond expression, only to shift his gaze to break the resulting eye contact.

“Cap,” Peter nudged the soldier’s arm after swallowing his first bite, distracting him from any embarrassment, “where’d you learn to cook?”

“My parents taught me.” Stifling a nostalgic sigh, Steve pushed a forkful of food around his plate before continuing, “I can’t bake to save my life, though, no matter how many times my mother tried to show me.” Bucky had been the one to pick up baking, and he was damn good at it too—funny how things worked out. When the kid’s expression shifted from vague understanding to something blanker, the soldier cracked a smile. “Cookies, cake, that sort of thing. Buck can show you sometime.”

Bucky leaned closer in his seat. “See kid, cooking’s an art, but baking’s a science. Not everyone’s good at both.” At first, he remained serious, solemn; after a moment, however, he allowed his lips to twitch upwards. “But yeah, I’ll show you. We can make something to celebrate once you’re pardoned, okay?”

“Oh.” Peter perked up a bit, a mix of excitement and nerves in his eyes. “Is it—did Mr. Stark talk to…?”

Clearing his throat, Clint cut in. “About that,” he began with a reassuring smile, an attempt to indicate that it wasn’t bad news. “We don’t want Hydra knowing that we have information on them, right? So that they won’t have time to prepare before we go about dismantling them once and for all.” Peter nodded slowly. “Well, your pardon—no matter how classified the document’s kept—could potentially tip them off that we know, and it’d put a target on your back. It may be best to hold off on anything official until after Hydra’s taken care of, see.”

“According to what you told us, there are some high-ranking officials that could access the information and tell Hydra,” Sam explained. “Officially, you’re missing or presumed dead. For now, we’d like to keep it that way.”

As the kid processed this, he studied his food, poking at it absentmindedly. “They know I’m here. My handler, at least.” After a moment, he ate a couple bites, then frowned. “Not… not _here_ , specifically, probably—but with you. There’s a target on my back either way.”

Steve pursed his lips. “How do you figure he knows that?”

“Because he knows _me_.” Peter quickly finished his meal before sighing, pushing away his plate, and dropping his head into his arms. “He knows I wouldn’t escape of my own volition, and if I died, it’d be somewhere easy enough to find. Which means I’m here.”

Bucky shared a glance with Steve. “Do you think he believes you’d talk?” he asked, turning his attention back to the kid.

That could complicate things; after all, if Hydra believed there to be a leak, it might not matter how discreet the team was about the information, since they’d start preparing for the raids either way. With luck, it wouldn’t interfere too much with the attack, and Hydra shouldn’t know the kind of information they possessed or how much—because as far as they should be aware, Peter didn’t know as much as he did. _Hopefully_.

“No,” the kid answered after a moment of contemplation. “No, he… made sure I wouldn’t.” Before Steve could question his phrasing—or his memory—Peter shrugged and rolled his eyes. “He’ll prepare anyway, but he doesn’t know what I know. If he did… he’d, um—he might’ve killed me, or at least would’ve done a more thorough job of scrambling my head or brainwashing me or—or whatever else.”

The thought made Steve frown, but he supposed it made sense. Crossing his arms, Sam leaned back in his seat as he considered, “Sounds like it would’ve been in his best interest to do that anyway.”

Peter snorted. “Yeah, you’d think. But he thought the reliance on those methods was more detrimental than anything, and, well,” he tilted his head towards Bucky, “he was kinda right. He wanted my obedience to be a choice.”

“It wasn’t a choice.” On that point, Steve remained adamant. “No matter what he told you, nothing Hydra forced you to do was your choice.”

“Cap, you’re repeating yourself,” the kid mumbled, tone light, as he buried his face into the crook of his elbow.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, “old men tend to do that.”

Conversation lapsed into silence when Peter huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh but otherwise didn’t respond. After patting the kid’s shoulder—the touch lingering a moment longer than he intended—Steve gathered the two plates and set them in the dishwasher, watching as Sam stood and walked over to a nearby supply closet. The airman returned to the table with a notebook and a pen before setting them down in front of Peter. “You know what might be good for you, kid?” he inquired, and once Peter looked up at him, he continued, “Making a list of things you look forward to.”

“To make sure I don’t forget?” Sitting up, Peter fidgeted with the notebook before flipping it open to the first page and staring at it. He picked up the pen and drew a smiley face at the top, then turned his attention to Steve as the soldier sat back in the seat next to him. “Uh, I… guess that’s fair.”

The first two bullet points— _seeing everyone_ and _ocean,_ put simply—came easy enough, but when the kid stalled, apparently unable to think of anything else, Clint chimed in with an idea. “You’ll be sixteen in a couple months, right? That’s a pretty big deal.”

Peter’s nose scrunched up. “Sixteen? Don’t most people turn sixteen, though? Being the oldest person in the world would be more impressive.” With a glance towards Steve, he bit his lip to keep a straight face.

“Barnes is older,” Sam corrected, smirking.

Bucky huffed. “You’re not supposed to tell people that.” When he proceeded to cover Peter’s ears, the kid squirmed. “Don’t listen to him, Petya.”

“Ew,” Peter whined, “old person germs.”

While the two were distracted, Steve took the initiative to add _birthday cake_ to the list—that knocked out two birds with one stone. “Besides,” Bucky continued, flicking the kid’s temple, “there are people older than me. Ceiling, how old is the oldest person alive?”

After a moment, FRIDAY answered helpfully, **“One hundred and sixteen years, two hundred and three days old.”**

“See?” Bucky gestured. “I’m barely a hundred.”

“That still makes you roughly six times my age.” Peter waved his hand away as he read Steve’s contribution. Just hearing that fact made the soldier feel impossibly older; while he knew how his age compared to those around him, he didn’t consciously think about it. “At least Cap’s a nice old man. Hey,” the kid looked at Steve, “should I make a list of things I’m _not_ looking forward to? You know, pros and cons.”

It took a moment for Steve to properly register the question. “Peter, the point is to think positively,” he explained, patient as ever. “A con list wouldn—”

“Would be realistic,” Bucky interrupted, lifting Peter’s arm so that he could take the notebook, “which is a step up from pessimism. Just look forward to the positive and deal with the negative.” He flipped forward to the halfway point—leaving plenty of room for the positive—and drew a frowning face at the top of a new page. “So kiddo, what aren’t you looking forward to?”

“Spiders,” came the immediate answer. “Always spiders.”

Okay, so Peter’s fear of arachnids hadn’t been a lie. Steve had wondered how much of that story the kid made up, and he found some comfort in knowing part of it was true. Sighing as he watched his friend add the con, the soldier argued, “That’s not what the list is for.”

Bucky stared him dead in the eye before beginning to write something that started with an _S_ , only for Peter to steal the pen back and flip to the pro list. But not without telling Steve, “He makes good points.” Though he tapped at the page, he didn’t seem to know what else to add.

Clint chuckled. “Sounds like there’s an angel and a devil on Peter’s shoulders.” And the fact that Steve and Bucky sat on either side of the kid only reinforced the image.

“Except instead of an angel and a devil,” Sam added from where he observed them, “it’s a nice old man and a grumpy old man.”

While Steve saw Bucky as neither a devil nor a grump, he humored the comment with a soft, amused snort—and only because his friend took no offense to it. Bucky nudged Peter’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper something to him, but despite the fact that the soldier _could_ listen if he wanted to, the warmth in his chest distracted him from doing anything more than admire the sight, especially when the kid smiled in return.

It occurred to Steve that he and Bucky should have an actual conversation about him adopting Peter; after all, since they lived together, it’d have a large impact on both of their lives and routines, from sleeping arrangements to whether or not they’d have to move—the latter of which could affect Bucky’s job at the mechanics shop down the street from their current apartment building. But Steve didn’t know a good excuse to get Bucky alone, and he was still too worried about Peter’s mental health to leave his side for more than a couple minutes.

Steve tried not to worry. Because Bucky cared about Peter and wanted what was best for him—and may not’ve passed on the suggestion if he _wasn’t_ okay with it. Sometimes, Steve just found himself concerned about his friend neglecting his own needs, and he hoped the arrangement made all three of them happy. Because Bucky _wasn’t_ a grump: he was a kindhearted man who looked out for the well-being of others before his own.

A gentle prod brought him back to the present, and he internally winced as he realized that he might’ve just missed a chunk of conversation. The odd look on Bucky’s face made Steve wonder if he’d been frowning unintentionally, but Peter’s question distracted him. “When’s your birthday, Cap?”

The soldier half-forced a smile. “July fourth, ironically enough.” It almost made him wonder if Project Rebirth had taken his birthday into consideration when choosing him to receive the serum; on the other hand, however, he doubted they planned the whole Captain America thing in the first place.

The significance of the date didn’t register in Peter’s eyes as he simply blinked. “That’s… soon?”

“You don’t know what day it is,” Steve guessed, which made enough sense. Hydra’s history lessons were likely rather lacking and biased, so the kid would have a lot to catch up on.

“I rarely know what month it is,” Peter said, misunderstanding the statement.

Adding a calendar and textbooks to his mental list of things to buy the kid, Steve waved a hand. “No, no, July Fourth is an American holiday celebrating the Declaration of Independence. It’s just a funny coincidence that it’s also Captain America’s birthday,” he explained. “It’s in a couple weeks.” His birthday wasn’t something he paid much attention to anymore, and this year, he’d either be here at this safehouse or raiding Hydra bases—most likely the latter. Tony and Fury worked fast on the information front, after all.

“Oh, okay.” Though he still didn’t understand fully, Peter nodded. “So you’ll get a birthday cake too?”

Most likely not. “We’ll see.” Then again, with Bucky’s promise of baking, maybe this year would be different. This year seemed intent on changing things.

***

Peter pouted. “But that’s exactly how I was doing it.”

Rolling his eyes as he started on the next level of his card house, Bucky snorted. “It’s obviously not,” he retorted with a glance towards the small pile of cards in front of the kid. “Otherwise, it’d have some structural integrity.”

“But you’re cheating,” Peter complained, gesturing towards the man’s metal arm. “That’s cheating.”

“It’s my arm.”

“It’s a machine! One more than likely capable of precision beyond human ability.” With a huff, the kid returned to his cards, and though he successfully leaned two sets against each other, the house collapsed on the third. On the other side of the table, Bucky continued without his left hand—albeit with added difficulty. Peter dropped his head into his arms with just enough force to knock the man’s house down. “Earthquake,” he mumbled.

Bucky, frozen with one card in hand, just scoffed.

***

When Steve’s eyes fluttered open the next morning, still well before dawn, he wasn’t surprised by the kid tucked under his arm, head resting on the soldier’s bicep as he laid on his back. Briefly, Steve debated burying his face into Peter’s hair and going back to sleep—he’d nearly forgotten how much he enjoyed cuddling, and if it made Peter comfortable, then all the better—before he noticed that the kid was awake and pulling at a loose thread on his sweater sleeve. “Sleep well?” Steve asked instead.

As though he didn’t notice the soldier waking up, Peter stiffened before relaxing again, angling his head for a better view then turning his attention back to his sweater. “Uh, yeah.” The smile he offered didn’t reach his eyes. “I was just… thinking.”

Steve hummed. “Yeah?” An invitation to talk, should the kid want to.

Peter’s hands stilled, and after a moment, he cleared his throat and folded them on his stomach, just below where Steve’s arm rested. “He—my tutor—told me not to tell anyone about, y’know, the notebook unless I… trusted them completely. Made me promise. Which I never thought would happen, so I tried to forget. It just reminded me of—of things. That I don’t like thinking about.”

Thinking about his tutor in general must be a painful subject; grief cast a persistent shadow. Given his upbringing, Steve had no doubt that there were plenty of things Peter didn’t like to dwell on, but oftentimes, it was hard to tear the mind away from such topics. Well, therapy helped.

“Three days, fourteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes,” the kid murmured. “They tortured him for three days, fourteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes, and then he was dead. Without ever giving up what he told me. To protect me. To—to protect the hope that the information would end up in the right hands one day. And I just… I couldn’t…”

For Peter to know the time so exactly—did Hydra force him to watch? Steve frowned. They were torturing the kid too, an attempt to figure out whatever secrets were shared between them. “You kept your promise,” the soldier reminded him, just in case it needed to be said. “He’d be proud of you.”

“I tried to come up with things that were—that he wasn’t supposed to tell me but were ultimately innocuous. That he said not to trust anyone from Hydra, or that he let me read an American book. Thought that maybe it’d appease them.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “Well, I… guess they believed me enough, so that’s… that. Hey, this is kind of nice, you know?” Peter glanced over at Steve. “Not being alone with my thoughts.”

“Anytime, kiddo.” Lip twitching upwards, Steve patted his side a couple times. “Whenever you want to talk, I’m here.”

“I’m not going to tell you everything, though,” Peter decided with a firm nod. The soldier quirked an eyebrow. “Because you’re nice to me and I don’t deserve it, but I want you to keep being nice to me. So I’m not going to tell you why I don’t deserve it. If, uh, you’ll let me be a little selfish?”

Somehow, Steve got the impression that he wouldn’t win this battle. “You can tell me anything,” he assured, undeterred, “and I’ll still be just as nice to you. You _do_ deserve that. But if you don’t want to talk to me, then you can talk to a therapist—a neutral third party who’s trained to help you with any problems. Does that sound good?”

A soft, contemplative hum escaped the kid as he shrugged. “Well… we’ll see. Maybe.” Another shrug. “So… is there anything specific I’m supposed to call you? As—as my legal guardian. Like, sir or something?”

The question gave Steve pause. Something along the lines of _dad_ seemed like a logical enough answer, but given that they hadn’t known each other for long, the suggestion may not be welcome. And, well, it sounded incredibly foreign; the soldier wasn’t certain he qualified as a father figure yet. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with,” he decided.

Silence stretched between them. “Master?” the kid suggested, jokingly serious.

“Whatever you’re most comfortable,” Steve amended, “that is not _that_.”

Laughing, Peter shifted to lay on his side facing the soldier, arm wrapping around him in a somewhat-hug. “I think I’ll just stick to Cap for now, then.” He let out a pleased noise as he buried his face into his chest, and after a couple minutes, Steve noted his breaths evening out. Back to sleep, huh? Well, he couldn’t argue with that.

Some time later, he woke up to Peter stirring and sitting up, and he opened his eyes just in time to hear a knock at the door. Steve knew who it was just by the fact that the door opened without him responding. “Morning,” he greeted Bucky.

His friend raised an eyebrow. “Morning. You usually don’t sleep in this late.” Angling his head towards the kitchen, he added, “Wilson and Barton are arguing over what they want for breakfast.”

At that, Peter perked up and scrambled off the bed. “I’ll go cook,” he declared, already making his way towards the door.

“Brush your teeth,” Steve called after him. He watched as the kid rerouted to the bathroom, grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, and left the room. Though he almost made to follow, he paused upon realizing that he was alone with Bucky. Now was a good time to ask, he supposed. “You’re okay with this, right? Me adopting Peter.”

Closing the door behind himself and stepping further into the room, Bucky gave him a weird look. “Yeah, ‘course. I didn’t realize it’s my decision to make.”

Steve offered a smile. “I just figured that since we live together, you should have a say in the matter, and—well, I worry is all.” About how the presence of a child might impact Bucky’s recovery—for better or for worse—and other details that he didn’t need to fret over, yet he did and would continue to. “It can be—”

“Steve,” Bucky sat down next to him, “I adore the kid and would love having him around, and I know the same goes for you. Aside from that, the most important thing is whether or not you can provide for him properly, which you can. Anything else, we’ll deal with.”

Oh, and never mind the fact that _raising a family with Bucky_ was an idea that crossed Steve’s mind one or twice or so over the years—but he couldn’t just say that. Could he? No, probably not. That might make things a little awkward, and he’d rather avoid that, especially with everything else going on. “Yeah, you’re right.” Steve gave Bucky’s shoulder a firm pat. “Thanks, pal.”

If his hand lingered for longer than usual, well, neither of them mentioned it.


	8. c-62039.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I've been busy, sick, and afraid of this chapter, but we're here now and that's all that truly matters. After this, there's one more main chapter followed by an epilogue; we're getting close to the end now, which is exciting!
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Steve’s hand lingered on his shoulder, but Bucky enjoyed the contact too much to say anything against it. He did, however, have a different bone to pick. “If you keep worrying so much,” he warned, “you’ll give yourself a heart attack. Healing factor be damned.”

Disappointingly, Steve returned his hand to his own lap, twiddling his thumbs as he let out a sheepish sigh. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just—well, it’s a little hard not to worry about him.” He raised his gaze to meet his friend’s, and his voice softened as he continued, “He’s just a _kid_ , Buck. Everything he’s been through, and he’s only fifteen.”

From what Bucky skimmed of the notebooks, Peter presented the information in a detached manner—impersonal and unemotional, aside from brief comments of how mean some agents were—and he never admitted to committing any crimes. People died on missions he went on; however, there were other agents present, and he never specified who pulled the trigger. But Bucky knew Hydra. He knew they forced Peter to kill.

“It’s incomprehensible.” It was one thing to do that to a man, a soldier who signed up for war knowing the potential consequences of it, but to a child? “But on the bright side, he’s not alone. Not anymore.”

Steve studied his palms. “Yeah, there’s that. Just wish we could’ve done something for him sooner.” Ideally, Peter wouldn’t have had to gone through _any_ of what he had; the world, however, was far from perfect, and no matter how many people any of them saved, the feeling that they could’ve done more lingered. And with luck, it wasn’t too late to _save_ Peter. The suicide attempt—naturally—left Bucky wary in that regard. Pursing his lips, Steve furrowed his brow. “I want to make sure he has the best chance possible. To recover and to be happy, you know.”

Bucky glanced over at him, sensing where this train of thought was heading. “I know. Me too.” He quirked an eyebrow. “And you know that’s with you, right? The kid likes you. You can take care of him.”

“I know,” the soldier allowed, which he logically did. But emotions were not always logical. Likewise, while Peter might understand that the horrors Hydra put him through weren’t his fault, a guilty conscious was liable to convince him otherwise. “I just don’t know if this,” he gestured vaguely, “is a good environment for him. It’s not normal.”

“Steve, Peter’s at least twice as strong as you and sticks to walls. I think he passed normal a long time ago.” Bucky snorted before sighing. “Besides, SHIELD does a good job of helping keep your personal life private, right? I’m sure you could bat your eyes and get the same for Peter. There’s no reason he can’t go to a normal school and be friends with normal kids.”

As he nodded slowly, Steve clasped his hands together—and abruptly chuckled under his breath. “Is it normal,” he gave Bucky a sideways look, “for me to be this nervous? I feel like… well, a new parent, I guess.”

Bucky fought off a smile. “Yeah, I think it’s pretty standard to be worried about adopting a literal human child. Just shows you’re emotionally invested.”

“Which is better than not being emotionally invested,” Steve concluded, thoughtful. Certainly, it made him more receptive to Peter’s needs and what was best for him, which put him on the right track to be a great parent. His lips quirked up. “I’ll do my best.” Because of course he would—Bucky doubted there were any circumstances where the soldier _didn’t_ give his all.

With a soft nod, Bucky allowed silence to lapse between them, relishing the moment of peace. It was nice to see some of the tension dissolve from his friend’s demeanor. Between having a strong lead to dismantle Hydra and having the kid around, Steve managed to relax more than he had in the past few months, even if the incident a couple nights ago set him back; now that Peter appeared to be feeling better—or at least like he wasn’t planning to kill himself, which was still improvement—however, the atmosphere gradually returned to normal.

“It’s nice to know he has a good support system. And if you…” Steve parted his lips, but no words came out, and the hesitation made Bucky long to change the subject.

Because he knew how Steve felt about him. He didn’t need to hear it aloud—and certainly not from Peter of all people—because that would only make the guilt worse. _Steve deserved better than him._ The age-old thought weighed him down now more than ever, and whatever kept Steve from acting on those feelings just encouraged it even if he knew the reason was more than likely good-natured.

Fortunately, it wasn’t Bucky that stopped him from continuing: a string of gentle knocks interrupted them, and they only stopped when Steve stood to open the door, revealing the kid on the other side. “Hi,” Peter greeted, “I cooked breakfast.”

“Good job, kiddo,” the soldier praised, smiling as he reached up to pat Peter’s head. As he made his way over to them, Bucky didn’t miss the way the kid leaned into the touch ever-so-slightly. “Did you have fun?”

Peter hummed his affirmation before glancing between the two men. “Did you?”

“Lots.” Not entirely sure whether or not the kid meant to imply something, Bucky resisted the urge to scoff; instead, he settled for ruffling Peter’s hair as the kid stepped back to allow them to leave the room and start towards the kitchen—only for the super soldiers to stop when Peter didn’t follow. “What’s up?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

His lips pursed and his fingers twitching, Peter shifted his weight. “Um… it’s nothing, just…” A crease formed in his brow as he shook his head. “It’s dumb, so—forget it.”

Steve and Bucky shared a glance, but while the former opened his mouth to ask a more serious question, the latter beat him to it: “What, you want a hug or something?” _Dumb_ was a fairly innocuous word, one that the kid only seemed to use for lesser issues—used to insult Hydra’s testing and the way Bucky said his name.

Pink dusted Peter’s cheeks, and the pout that formed on his lips confirmed that Bucky was at least somewhat correct. “I’ve just… gotten used to being around one or both of you, I guess, so—so it was weird not to be? But…”

So he missed them? While Bucky certainly appreciated the sentiment—it was touching to think that the kid cared enough to—something about it didn’t sit right in his stomach, given Peter’s apparent unease. If Peter started relying on either of them for comfort, well, that wouldn’t be great; however, at the moment, his mood may not be all that stable, so perhaps it was a temporary crutch. Anything more and they could cross that bridge when they came to it.

“We didn’t mean to worry you,” Steve assured, though _worry_ might not have been the most accurate description—but it ultimately worked well enough. The corners of Peter’s lips twitched up, and before anything else could be said, he walked past the two men towards the kitchen. Steve watched him with a fond smile, then raised an eyebrow at Bucky.

And though it mildly unsettled him, Bucky hoped that this reaffirmed the fact that Peter was better off with the soldier. Well, maybe any of the Avengers would do, but Tony had a point: the kid _did_ like Steve the best. And really, his favoritism had been blatant since the beginning, given he offered Steve the warmest welcome upon first meeting him—even if it might’ve been mere surface-level excitement.

Well, there was the likelihood that a more genuine respect would form, if it hadn’t already.

Another second passed before Peter stopped, turned around, and returned to Steve’s side, reaching up to tug at his sleeve. “You can be in charge of cooking again,” he informed. “You’re better at the… uh, people part of it.” The way he scrunched up his face left Bucky assuming that Sam and Clint teased him. Unsurprising, really.

Steve bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling. “Whatever you want, son.” Whether he meant to let the term of endearment slip or it was mere habit on behalf of being an old man, he pursed his lips a half second after he said it, watching the kid’s reaction carefully.

“Um. Yeah.” The barest trace of a blush reddened Peter’s cheeks, but he otherwise didn’t dwell on the phrasing. “I just made eggs, since it’s easiest, so…” Releasing his grip, he turned to lead the way back to the kitchen, and this time, Steve and Bucky followed.

Clint raised his glass of water in greeting once they arrived; he and Sam were already half finished with their food. “Mornin’,” the archer greeted, grinning. “Man, I’ve gotta figure out how to get my kids into the kitchen.” In a way that didn’t resemble what left Peter obedient and eager to please, hopefully—but Bucky doubted there was any cause to worry. Clint seemed like the fun parent, which might be why his kids weren’t as inclined to listen to him. Based on his own comments, anyway; according to Natasha, they were rather well-behaved.

Well, the next few days were either going to be relaxing or chaotic. With this bunch, Bucky couldn’t quite tell which.

***

Bucky slept peacefully through the next night, vague images of family filling his dreams—not the unfamiliar faces he usually saw and associated with the word, but a new one. One that he technically wasn’t a part of. But even just in his imagination, it was a pleasant thought.

His eyes fluttered open at a knock on the door, and he didn’t have time to sit up before Peter let himself in, opening the door only as far as necessary and closing it silently behind him. Bucky stifled a yawn as he watched the kid climb onto the bed and sit with his feet tucked underneath him. “Cap wants to know what you want in your omelet,” he said without preamble.

“Surprise me.” Bucky shrugged, waving a hand to stop Peter from leaving. “But FRIDAY can tell him.” The kid took the hint and settled back down. His fingers twitched in suspense—but Bucky waited until he sat up and stretched, then continued. “Unless you’d rather go make omelets with Steve?”

Peter shrugged lightly, tilting his head. “Either’s fine. Is your arm bothering you again?”

The question caught the man off-guard, but it didn’t take more than a moment before he recovered, scoffing. “No, Petya, my arm’s fine.” _Wouldn’t you be able to tell?_ he almost asked, though he didn’t want to sound unintentionally harsh. “Is it hard to believe that I just like talking to you?”

“You talk to me all the time,” the kid pointed out, and he glanced towards the door for emphasis.

“Yeah, but…” Bucky shrugged one shoulder. Once upon a time, he’d been far more social; nowadays, however, being around people too often tended to put him on edge, and he preferred one-on-one conversations. Steve’s company made the current situation more tolerable, but his mood still benefited from alone time or limited interaction. “I just want to make sure that you’re alright with everything. I mean, we _did_ equate Steve’s presence to torture before.”

Amusement flickered in Peter’s eyes as he huffed out a laugh. “That’s… well. Does good torture exist? Is that a thing?” If not, it was now. “And I’m pretty sure that was _you_ , not us. Which doesn’t stop you from…” Trailing off, he gestured vaguely.

No, no it did not. Bucky hummed. “Why are you so interested in that anyway?” Usually, he’d brush it off as a mere distraction—an interest that took the kid’s mind off what bothered him. It wasn’t like he had much life experience that made for decent conversation. But since he brought it up now, Bucky wondered if that meant he was upset about something or if there was another reason for it.

“Uh.” Peter pursed his lips and stared down at his hands, which he clasped together in his lap. “’Cause… you’re doing a lot to help me and get me to a place where I can be happy and stuff, and I feel kinda bad about it? So I wanna help you guys. Return the favor, y’know.”

“And you assume Steve and I will be happier if we talk about our feelings,” Bucky concluded. And, well, considering how content Tony was to brag about his fiancée, he understood where Peter got that idea. He stifled a sigh. “Listen, feelings are complicated. A lot’s happened between us.”

A lull of silence passed before Peter snorted. “And you can’t talk it out? You’re both encouraging me to take risks despite my… um, reservations. Isn’t that the same thing?”

Guilt left Bucky convinced that Steve deserved better, and in turn, he felt guilty for thinking that; after all, if that was true, what did that mean for Peter? Or Natasha and Wanda, for that matter? He could argue that romance was different, but ultimately, the difference wasn’t significant. And Steve could decide for himself what he deserved and what he wanted out of life. “You’re not wrong,” he allowed.

“Yeah, I’m smart like that.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s a good time.” He felt confident in that excuse. Between focusing on the kid and preparing for the upcoming fight against Hydra, Steve had a lot on his plate. Bucky didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Once everything settles down… I’ll consider it.”

Peter squinted. “Sure you will.” Given that Bucky doubted his own conviction, the kid had every right to as well, and he also doubted this would be their last conversation on the matter. Looking down at his hands, Peter tugged at the hems of his sweater sleeves, brow furrowed. “Y’know, this is all still… really weird.”

Oh, Bucky knew that better than anything; after all, he often had trouble processing how weird his life became over the years. “’Cause you were so scared of me when we first met?” he mused.

“No,” the kid’s nose scrunched up, “ _no_ , I wasn’t.” Bucky couldn’t quite tell whether or not Peter was lying or if he really was afraid of something _else_ —to be fair, he was likely afraid of a lot of things—so he just hummed and waiting for him to elaborate. “I never, uh, hated _you_ or anything like that, but I did… sorta wish you were dead. Just—just ‘cause I hated Hydra so much, and I guess I ended up blaming you for their existence. Which was…”

 _Irrational_ , the man assumed—but ultimately, Peter had a point. Hydra thrived while using him as a tool to accomplish their goals, which did make him a large part of the problem. The very thought that everything Peter went through could be Bucky’s fault hit him like a brick, nearly knocked the wind from his lungs.

When Bucky stayed quiet, Peter continued, “After you escaped, it was—I didn’t want to get my hopes up. So I thought about it a lot, always listened for any news that you might’ve been killed… but it never came. So, um, it’s pretty weird to think that I’ve gone from _that_ to wanting to stay with you.” He paused, then added, as an afterthought, “Well, Cap, I guess, technically, but—you too, by extension.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing, instead watching the kid’s hands—specifically, how he came close to scratching his skin but narrowly avoided it and kept his fidgeting confined to the fabric. Reaching out, he gently tapped Peter’s knuckles. “You’re getting better at that,” he murmured.

For a moment, the kid froze, then ducked his head almost bashfully. “Well, you told me not to, so…”

 _That_ was the reason? Then again, Bucky supposed it didn’t matter; he’d take what he could get in this situation. Perhaps one day, Peter would decide that he simply didn’t _want_ to hurt himself, but for now, this would do. “Well, I’m proud of you, Petya.”

“Thanks,” Peter mumbled, his mouth lingering open and his tongue twitching like the word felt odd to say. He pressed his lips into a thin line. “It’s… hard ‘cause I feel weird, but…”

“Weird?”

Peter shrugged. “Yeah. I can’t tell if it’s just anxiety or… uh, something else? But I don’t think today’s going to be much fun.” Shifting his weight, he frowned. “Um, don’t—don’t tell Cap I said that, though. If it turns out to be nothing, I don’t wanna bother him.”

Though he almost wanted to point out that the kid all but scolded him for that mindset mere days ago, Bucky refrained. “I wouldn’t dismiss the whole day just because you’re anxious,” he advised instead. “If nothing else, Wilson and Barton get pretty lively. They may strongarm you into having fun.”

“They can try.” Peter’s tone bordered on amused as he stifled a smile. A moment later, he dropped his gaze, sighing. “But I… uh, it’s probably nothing. Anyway, Mr. Stark sent over more groceries, so Cap’s going to show me new recipes. So that might be fun.”

The feigned lightness mildly concerned Bucky, but at least he was trying to look forward to something—probably. But a knock at the door and Clint’s announcement that, “Breakfast is served,” cut off anything he might’ve said. Peter wasted no time in hopping off the bed and leaving the room. With a sigh, Bucky got up, quickly changed clothes, and followed him to the kitchen; when he arrived, he just managed to overhear the archer lean in close to Sam and say, “Pretty sure you’re the only one here who hasn’t tried to steal Cap’s kid.”

And he decidedly ignored the airman’s scoff and muttered reply as he made his way instead to Steve—possibly proving Sam’s point in the process, but whatever. Steve quirked an eyebrow, to which Bucky half-smiled. Well, even if he wanted to tell his friend about Peter’s bad feeling, the kid’s scrutinizing stare kept him quiet; more than likely, Peter would just interrupt him if he tried to say anything.

In the end, Bucky supposed he could call this a trust-building exercise. Peter confided in him, so he shouldn’t go around talking about it—especially when specifically asked not to. Especially over something so minor.

Bucky had bad feelings all the time, and they rarely amounted to anything. If nothing else, he understood the urge to disregard such emotions. And speaking of disregarding emotions, he certainly ignored whatever the hell bubbled up in his chest when Steve held out a plate to him and said, “Here, I made your favorite.”

Ham and spinach—a combination that Bucky never specifically _called_ his favorite, but he supposed he requested it enough that it wasn’t a leap of logic to assume as much. Before he could decide between a sarcastic and a sincere response, Steve moved onto serving everyone else’s food, leaving him slightly dumbfounded.

As everyone settled down to eat, Peter unsurprisingly stole the seat next to Steve, and Bucky debated listening to the conversation Clint and Sam struck up—though he ultimately let it go in one ear and out the other, as he’d heard them discuss movies a hundred times by then. And as Peter fell into his usual habit of helping Steve clear the table and wash the dishes, Bucky found himself wrapped up in his own thoughts.

A change of pace would be nice; even if he _could_ spend an indefinite amount of time waiting in one place, it wasn’t ideal, and he was admittedly growing weary of doing little more than watch movies and play games day in and day out. Once the others left on their mission, there’d be even less to do—just him there to watch the kid. He knew they’d manage, especially since a few dull days never hurt anyone, but he wished there were more ways to shake off his growing restlessness.

 _If you need to leave, be smart about it._ Fury’s warning echoed around his head, and as Steve already decided, going outside just to go for a run didn’t exactly qualify as necessity. Bucky wondered why they couldn’t have put a gym in the safehouse, especially when—wait, _did_ they? He lifted his head to look over at Steve and Peter. “Have we seen all the rooms in this house?” he asked with abrupt urgency.

“No,” Peter was quick to report, “but we should.” At that, he abandoned whatever counter he was helping wipe down, and Bucky followed him out of the room without another word. While he half-expected more company, it appeared this would be a two-person quest.

“Have fun storming the castle!” Clint called after them.

One thing that became clear right off the bat was that this safehouse hadn’t been used much—if at all. There were plenty of rooms, all basically empty, and it looked more like a model home than somewhere anyone actually lived. If anyone, whoever did stay there didn’t leave much behind; in their search of the dressers and closets, however, they did manage to find a couple random items, potentially things the construction workers left behind.

Though it didn’t come as a surprise, Peter’s skill and thoroughness when it came to checking for secret compartments impressed Bucky, though he waved him away from the only one he found. “I know what that is, Petya. No need to pry it open.” The kid’s shoulder’s slumped, but he moved on from what promised to be a large hidden closet.

And no, there was no gym to be found. Only when FRIDAY informed that that lunchtime approached did Bucky give up his search, and he glanced over as Peter dropped down from the ceiling and landed without a sound. Maybe one day, he’d get used to watching the kid climb up walls, but today was not that day.

They arrived back to the kitchen, and Bucky looked at Sam and Clint’s intense card game at the table, scoffing as he commented, off-hand, “Barton’s cheating,” which caused some indignation for both parties involved—for various reasons.

Peter walked over to Steve, grabbed his hand, and placed the stress ball he found on the soldier’s palm. “Happy birthday.” Close enough to it anyway, especially since they likely wouldn’t be together on the actual day itself.

Steve smiled, adorably fond as he rested his free hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks, kiddo.”

Maybe today wouldn’t be such a not-fun day after all, Bucky mused as he took a seat at the breakfast bar and watched the two riffle through ingredients and discuss potential recipes.

That hopeful feeling didn’t last long.

Cutting himself off mid-sentence, Peter stiffened and perked up; not half a second later, he flung himself over the counter and slammed into Bucky, knocking them both onto the floor. Sam and Clint scrambled out of the way when Bucky’s back hit the table and sent it flying, and though dazed for a moment, he swiftly noted the hole in the glass window and the blood spreading across the kid’s sweater.

He used his body to shield the kid from further harm, and Clint flipped the table on its side and slid it in front of them just in time for the metal underside to catch a second shot. The falling lockdown shutters caught a third.

“Peter!” Steve called as he rushed over, nearly trampling Sam when the airman knelt by the kid’s side opposite Bucky. The soldier crouched closer to his head. “Are you okay?”

A groan followed by a dull, “Ow,” was Peter’s response, and he shifted, only for his breath to hitch in pain. Worst of all were his wrists and ankles forcibly stuck together—and to the floor, to top it off.

Bucky swore under his breath, though he did his best to remain calm as he helped the kid to lay on his side. No exit wound, and he frowned at the source of the bleeding a couple inches below his right collarbone. Clint appeared next to Sam with an armful of clean towels. The airman pressed one to the wound—not too hard, to avoid puncturing any of his internal organs with his broken ribs, but firm enough. “You with me, kid?” Sam asked, terse.

Peter attempted to breathe properly, but it came either in short bursts or not at all. “Yeah,” he managed through gritted teeth before forcing himself to glance at Bucky. “Now’s a bad—bad time to… say I told you so?”

“Very bad, yes.” Bucky took over the role of holding the towel in place while Sam fetched the first aid kit. At Steve’s confused frown, he elaborated, “Bad feeling. Guess it wasn’t just anxiety.”

Steve looked up at the ceiling. “FRIDAY, why is he stuck?”

 **“Protocol dictates that if Peter makes any sudden, threatening movements, I am to restrain him. This was activated when he jumped towards Sergeant Barnes, before I was aware of his intention to protect,”** the AI explained.

Getting a better grip on Peter when the kid jerked, Bucky let out a frustrated breath. “Then why is he _still_ stuck?” he demanded with feigned neutrality.

His stomach dropped at the apologetic response: **“AWOL Protocol can only be deactivated by boss or Fury, but I am unable to contact either of them. Something is jamming my signal.”**

_Dammit, Stark._

“He needs medical attention,” Sam spoke to Steve more than anyone, voice low and somehow not grating. It almost sounded like a warning that it’d rain soon, which Bucky supposed was an attempt to prevent Peter from panicking. And probably to also prevent Steve from panicking.

An idea popped into the soldier’s head. “Peter, Tony showed you how FRIDAY works, didn’t he? Do you think you could tell me how to override the protocol?”

With a soft whine, Peter shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “Only showed me… couple minutes… Don’t know…”

“We also need to worry about who’s jamming the signal,” Clint added, brows furrowing as he stood guard and looked around as though he could see any incoming threats. The heavy metal shutters kept them protected, but they also kept them blind. “And how they found us.”

“ _Hydra_ ,” the kid hissed out. “Told you so… an’ lots of ways. Doesn’t matter how.” Yes, it seemed he had unfortunately good instincts. Steve ran a soothing hand through his hair as Sam pulled back the towel to inspect the wound, and Bucky struggled to hold Peter still. Peter let out another whine and turned his face into the soldier’s palm. “Hurts… shouldn’t hurt this much.”

“FRIDAY?”

 **“Scanning now,”** FRIDAY responded, and a moment passed before she reported, **“It appears the bullet is laced with poison, but I don’t recognize it.”**

Bucky glanced at the dent in the table behind him, then at the shallower one in the shutters—the latter with a different trajectory. One closer to where Steve had been standing when the sniper fired. “If Steve and I were the intended targets,” which made sense, all things considered, “then it’s probably one special made for super soldiers.” That way, even if the bullet didn’t strike a vital organ, the poison would do the rest.

But Peter was stronger than both of them. He could fight it off. He _had_ to.

The AI continued, **“There is equipment in the lab I can use to analyze the chemical makeup of the poison. Naturally, I’ll need a sample.”**

“How much?” Steve asked.

 **“As much as possible.”** Sam pressed a fresh towel to the wound, a crease in his brows betraying his thoughts. This situation wasn’t ideal for pulling bullets out of children, but what if the one in the table wasn’t enough? **“The bullet is lodged near Peter’s third rib, three inches from his spine. You should be able to remove it with minimal risk.”**

“If—if you do it now,” the kid warned, hissing, “I won’t… be the only one who needs medical attention.” He eyed the first aid kit—wary and fearful.

Sam pursed his lips. “I don’t suppose regular anesthetic would work on you, by any chance.” Frantically, Peter shook his head, and the airman looked around. “Is there anything he could bite down on?”

Bucky briefly closed his eyes before glancing towards the hallway. “My room, the bedside table. There’s a leather case with the painkiller Banner made for Steve.” Clint didn’t question the statement, simply turned and rushed out to retrieve it—but the fifty questions in Steve’s gaze made up for it. On the other hand, Sam gave him a knowing look, which the soldier thankfully didn’t see. Bucky shrugged. “For emergencies.”

But why did _he_ have it? A fantastic question he had no intention of answering.

Clint returned a few seconds later to pass the case to Sam, who opened it. “It’s two doses,” he said with a glance between Steve and the ceiling. “Would one be enough, or should I give him both?”

**“I’m unfamiliar with Peter’s physiology. I couldn’t say for sure.”**

“Don’t touch me.” Writhing, the kid jerked back again at the sight of the syringe. “Besides, it’s—safe to say me and Cap… metabolize things differently. So… so it might not work.”

“Peter, it’s—” Steve tried.

“ _No_ ,” Peter cut him off. He went rigid, then relaxed minutely, his frantic gaze calming to fixate on the soldier. “You need to leave. And if you can’t take me with you, then… then don’t waste your time. Just _go_.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to stay calm and firm. “I’m not leaving without you.”

The kid let out a heavy breath. “That’s not what I’m suggesting. You promised you wouldn’t let Hydra take me back, right?” A rhetorical question, but Steve nodded anyway. “Which means… you can’t _just_ leave. You have to kill me.”

If the abrupt and unintentional tightening of Bucky’s grip bothered Peter, he didn’t show it; instead, he maintained steady eye contact with Steve, neither faltering in their conviction—their ideas on how this situation needed to end.

Syringe in hand and ready to use, Sam scoffed lightly. “Listen, kid, it’s a little premature for that sort of solution, don’t you think? And even if an army was busting down the doors, none of us would abandon you.” He flicked the needle once, twice. “Now, about getting that bullet out…”

“You should leave,” Peter insisted, a desperate whisper. A fact he resigned himself to but didn’t want to say aloud.

“Peter, we’ll get through this. _Together_.” Because Steve promised that too, and keeping it entailed keeping the other. And Bucky _did_ recall warning Peter that his friend was unbearably stubborn. “We’re still breathing, aren’t we? So, there’s still hope. No need to give up now.”

His shoulders slumping, the kid released a frustrated huff. Now that his will to argue with Steve vanished, pain and breathlessness seeped back into his tone. “Fine,” he muttered, “do… do whatever you want.”

The tension in his muscles didn’t make it easy, but he didn’t actively fight against Sam rolling up his sleeve and injecting the painkiller in his arm. He gave it a moment to work its way through Peter’s system before asking, “That do anything?”

Peter nodded twice, curt. “Yeah, but hu—hurry up.”

Steve and Bucky rolled the kid onto his stomach and kept firm grips on his shoulders and side, the former taking up towel duty, as Sam ripped his sweater open and Clint moved to help hold down his feet. Though the incision must’ve been nothing in comparison to his other afflictions, Peter struggled to keep still, muscles twitching and ready to fight his way free—but he managed, and he kept his eyes squeezed shut and his forehead pressed to the tile floor.

Once Sam extracted the bullet with careful precision, he set it aside in a small bowl and passed it to Clint. “I’ll get the one from the table and take them to the lab,” the archer said, standing up and making quick work of following through while the airman bandaged the incision.

 **“When my communications are back up, I can send the data along with a distress signal.”** Before anyone could request an update on that situation, the AI continued, **“Using the radar from the drone boss sent, I was able to locate the signal jammer. It’s roughly three miles east of here.”**

“Can the drone do anything about it?” Bucky patted Peter’s side, a silent reminder that he needed to _breathe_ —something he’d refrained from for at least the past minute. “Or the sniper?”

He pictured FRIDAY sighing. **“It’s not combat-enabled, and it was shot down when it approached the jammer.”** Which was to say that it wouldn’t be useful even just to divebomb the device; he imagined that she must’ve tried to use it as a weapon already.

Steve glanced between Bucky and Sam, a plan forming in his eyes. “I’m going to disable it.” Before Bucky could offer to go with him, the soldier interrupted, “Buck, I need you to stay with Peter. I’ll be back soon.”

The kid whined in protest, but Bucky understood well enough not to argue: Steve _needed_ to do this. He’d never been one to sit idly by and rely on someone else to take action, and he’d fought Hydra so many times before that it must’ve seemed like child’s play by now. With luck, this wouldn’t be anything special. Besides, Bucky _technically_ wasn’t authorized to go on missions—maybe he should look into that. “Okay,” he agreed, “but wait for Barton.”

Even if Bucky had faith in Steve’s ability to beat up Hydra goons, he took more comfort in the thought of the soldier having backup—especially from someone as capable as Clint. Peter, on the other hand, took no comfort at all as he shifted back onto his side and furrowed his brow at Steve, whimpering even when the soldier traced his thumb along his cheekbone. “Don’t go…”

Steve managed the smallest of smiles, forcing amusement into his tone. “What happened to doing whatever I want?”

“Forgot… that you’re stupid,” Peter wheezed. He squirmed and attempted to lift an arm, only to hiss and scrunch his face up—a few deep breaths later, he forced himself to glare at Steve. “Please don’t get hurt trying to save me. Just—go without me. Please.”

“Petya,” Bucky rubbed what he hoped to be soothing circles into the kid’s shoulders, “I know this is rough, but you want to stay with Steve, right? That’s what you said. Isn’t it?” Peter nodded weakly. “And that’s what’ll happen. Relax and let us handle it.”

Peter huffed. “Jerk.”

Before he could argue—or insult—any further, Clint reappeared at the end of the hallway, his bow and quiver in one hand and Steve’s shield in the other. “FRIDAY filled me in,” he greeted, curt. “We need to get going.” Because blood loss and poison were not comforting, and the sooner they called for help, the better. The sooner FRIDAY let them out the door with Peter in tow, the better. And there were probably other protocols that needed to be overridden in order to accomplish the latter.

Steve nodded once before turning his attention back to the kid. “I _will_ come back,” he swore.

“But what if you don’t?” The words barely made a sound as they left Peter’s mouth, shaky and half-coherent.

“We won’t get the chance to find out.” Steve carded his hand through the kid’s hair one last time, offering a more genuine smile as he stood back up to follow Clint. “I’ll see you soon, Peter.”

With great effort, Peter called back, “You better,” but his face fell once the two left his sight and he didn’t even wince when Sam replaced his towel once more. He let his head drop to the floor, and Bucky frowned at the soft thump. The last thing this kid needed right now was brain damage, but—well, he supposed there hadn’t been enough force behind it to harm him. Unless the bullet wound and poison sapped his healing factor.

They lapsed into silence for a couple minutes until Sam broke it. “How are you feeling, Peter?”

“Burns,” the kid mumbled. Which didn’t come as a shock given the feverish heat currently radiating from his skin. “E-everything… burns. Need t’ sleep.”

“Hey.” Sam prodded his cheek. “I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Don’t fall asleep.”

“…but ‘ll be better if I sleep.” Because that seemed to be his solution to injuries in general: resting until he felt better. And sure, that worked well enough the past couple times, but there’d been less clear and present danger then. Now, Bucky expected someone to start pounding at the door any second. “Cap’ll be back sooner if—”

Bucky cut him off. “No, Petya, you can’t sleep. You have to stay awake at least until Steve gets back, alright?” Because that would mean some semblance of safety, surely, and less to worry about. While it’d be easy enough to keep Peter alert by mentioning the danger Steve and Clint might be in, Bucky figured it’d be counterproductive to add to his anxiety.

A catch twenty-two, really. Peter could either fall asleep and succumb or have a panic attack and bleed out. Neither were ideal.

Sam inhaled, exhaled, and spared the ceiling a quick glance. “Any update, FRIDAY?”

 **“I’m unable to establish stable communication with Captain Rogers and Agent Barton,”** came the unsatisfying response, though it succeeded in perking the kid up, **“though the mission was proceeding smoothly the last time I was able to check.”**

That hopefully meant they didn’t explode or anything—simply left the range of what the AI could track with the jammer still in effect. So it wasn’t _terrible_ news, in Bucky’s opinion. It meant they were making progress. Closer to shutting the enemy down and calling for back-up. Though he couldn’t find the words, he attempted to relay this thought via gently squeezing Peter’s upper arm.

A split second of unsettling static erupted from FRIDAY’s speakers, and concern tainted her usually soothing Irish accent. **“I believe—trying to—code—”**

Silence washed over the house, the only sound to be heard that of the kid’s fitful breathing. The shutters muffled any birdsong or crickets or rustling leaves that might’ve created ambient noise, and the air thickened—for a moment, Bucky found it difficult to inhale, but he forced himself to remain calm. He couldn’t set a bad example, after all, no matter how much he hated this. And the next voice didn’t help in the slightest.

_“C-62039.”_

Every muscle in Peter’s body went rigid, all the air stuck in his lungs; the only movement was his gaze sliding up to meet Bucky’s, filled with the same desperate plea from before. _Kill me._ But Bucky couldn’t do that, especially not with Steve counting on him to keep the kid— _his_ kid—safe.

The thought that this was someone from _Hydra_ hit him like a train—someone he couldn’t _see_ or _punch_ —and he reminded himself that the trigger words didn’t work anymore, repeated it in his mind over and over again. This guy couldn’t make him do anything—and Peter didn’t have trigger words either.

A mere voice didn’t pose a threat, then. But if he had access to FRIDAY’s system…

Though Peter trembled as he inhaled, his voice came out even. “Commander,” he returned neutrally.

 _“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t intend for you to be hurt.”_ Commander, slight Russian accent, familiar with Peter—Bucky racked his brain for a name because the kid had to have mentioned it somewhere. _“Though, it isn’t unexpected. You do tend to act without thinking in these situations.”_

Bucky had to wonder if Peter perhaps noticed a muzzle flash or something—but was his eyesight truly good enough to be able to tell who the sniper was aiming for? Either way, it didn’t matter. Not at the moment. “Don’t listen to him, Petya.”

 _Sokolov_. It sounded correct, anyway. _“Petya.”_ Laughter colored his tone, deceptively good natured. _“That’s cute. You surprise me, Winter Soldier._ Cute _is not something I would have expected from you.”_

“Shut the hell up,” came Sam’s expert retort.

If given the chance, Bucky would gladly punch this guy’s lights out; after all, this must be the person responsible for all the terrible things Peter went through—and continued to. “For someone who didn’t want the kid to get hurt,” he bit out, “you don’t seem to care much about the fact that he _is_.”

 _“It makes little difference,”_ the commander dismissed, which only infuriated Bucky that much more. _“The gunshot won’t kill him, and I have an antidote prepared for the poison. I did consider this a strong possibility, after all.”_

Did that mean the poison _was_ fatal? Even if Peter wasn’t the intended target, he did betray Hydra—why _wouldn’t_ they make an attempt on his life? Bucky made eye contact with Sam, wondering if the airman thought the same.

“How thoughtful.” Getting the antidote would be ideal, but Bucky doubted it was anywhere they could easily get to, at least not without leaving Peter exposed. And they couldn’t call Steve or Clint. His blood chilled when the timing clicked in his head. _They were alone._ He didn’t have luxury of dwelling on it, however, as the kid’s chest spasmed, and though Peter attempted to hold his breath, it didn’t stop him from hyperventilating. “Hey…” What could he say? That everything would be alright?

Theoretically, Sokolov could open the doors and let in a horde of goons, and with Peter stuck in place, they couldn’t escape. Yet no matter how much Bucky strained his ears, he couldn’t hear any footsteps outside—and it made no sense to take on the Winter Soldier and an Avenger without troops to spare.

The commander’s voice took on a soothing lilt. _“It’s okay, Peter. It’s better this way.”_

Of course, they could fight their way through whatever expendable lackeys Sokolov sent: there was only one person who would give them any trouble. Someone who wasn’t supposed to _be_ any trouble, yet the words melted the tension in his muscles and settled his respiration. Pain, fear, anxiety—they all drained from his expression, left his gaze vacant.

Oh, god dammit. The combination of all the blood and Peter’s eyes left Bucky with a vague sense of déjà vu, and he squinted past whatever memory threatened to surface. _Not now._ Sometimes, memories came easy—sometimes, his head felt like splitting open. He didn’t care to see what this one would be like. “Petya, listen—”

_“We need to talk.”_

What could Bucky do to snap him out of it? Hit him over the head? Talk about Steve? No, talking was no good—not with this guy listening to them. It’d be bad if they slipped up and said too much, but it’d also be bad to let Peter stay like this. Bucky tightened his grip on the kid’s shoulder. If only he had the perfect solution.

 _“What have you told the Avengers?”_ _That voice._ Bucky heard it before—from someone standing by watching an underling clean blood off a boy’s skin. A boy who didn’t so much as twitch, merely staring at the ground, dull and empty. A boy who was not _Peter_ because _Peter_ , whether positive or negative, always had so much emotion and _life_ in his eyes.

Too focused on willing away the pain and lightheadedness accompanying the realization, Bucky failed to notice the concerned look Sam shot him. Not like it’d make a difference.

“Nothing.” The lie snapped Bucky out of his stupor. Everything in the kid’s demeanor hinted towards obedience—which meant telling _his_ _superior_ the truth. Were those not trigger words? “It shouldn’t have been too long before they were forced to turn me back over to SHIELD.”

Fortunately, FRIDAY didn’t have cameras, which meant Sokolov had no way of seeing the look Bucky and Sam shared. At the very least, what the commander said didn’t trigger Peter in the same way the Winter Soldier’s words did; they were too normal, something a person might say in an actual conversation.

Ignoring emotions. Flipping the switch off. The words must’ve had some connection to whatever made Peter do that—and _survive_. His ability to lie in spite of any instilled obedience made sense, then, if the truth would likely kill him.

“Stop talking, Peter,” Sam demanded. If Sokolov didn’t know the lie, he didn’t need to—which entailed them reacting accordingly. And if they could stall for long enough, that’d give the others time to complete their part of the mission.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. Stalling, okay, he could do that. He took a deep breath to steady himself before he turned his attention to the ceiling. “Have we met before? You sound familiar.”

That wasn’t a fact he wanted confirmation of, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. _“Once or twice, yes, but I wasn’t talking to you.”_ Idly, Bucky recalled the notebook and mentions of Sokolov being a strategist—which meant he wouldn’t fall for stalling. And he didn’t know anything that’d make the commander break character. _“C-62039. Can you move?”_

For lack of a better idea, Bucky covered Peter’s mouth to prevent him from responding—with his left hand in case the kid tried to bite him. Well, he did feel some semblance of relief when Peter squirmed and tried to shake his head free. “Given the bullet wound,” the man answered for him, “I doubt it.”

 _“You’d be surprised, Winter Soldier.”_ While Bucky hated to admit it, Sokolov had a point; even in this state, Peter was _strong_ , especially if he dissociated from the pain. Two super soldiers might be enough to hold him down, but Bucky could tell he’d have trouble with it alone—unless he planned on hurting the kid, at least. _“Given the right motivation, the boy’s capable of accomplishing anything.”_

Pursing his lips, Bucky glanced down at Peter, who squeezed his eyes shut, body tense and still. “Stop calling me that,” he demanded. Well, here went nothing: “The Winter Soldier’s dead.”

Without the might to back up their ideals, Hydra’s days were numbered. All the Avengers had to do was take out their roots—and by now, there was little to nothing the organization could do to fight their downfall. But getting Peter back would help. That was, perhaps, Sokolov’s only hope of escape, whether he knew it or not.

But Peter didn’t move, and the commander merely laughed. _“An interesting choice of words,”_ he allowed. _“Ah, but if that’s what you—”_

Pain blossomed across Bucky’s stomach, distracting him from the rest of the taunt; the elbow jab dazed him just long enough for Peter to duck his head down and pry the man’s hand from his mouth with his own, adhesion keeping it trapped in place. “I’ll go with you!” he called out, urgency lacing his tone. “I’ll go with you, but it has to be _now_. Before Captain America and Hawkeye take out the jammer, and before FRIDAY’s security protocols kick you out.”

The kid’s eyes opened just enough for him to glare at the tile floor, the slightest bit of water glazing them over as he furrowed his brow. His lips moved just enough to mouth the word _sorry_ over and over again.

Bucky thought his heart might stop. Not now—after coming so far, he couldn’t lose Peter _now_. Not when the kid was so close to having a good life and being free of his tormenters, not when Steve was counting on Bucky to keep him safe.

Was he so powerless that he couldn’t save one child who was right in front of him?

 _“Very well.”_ The words echoed around his head without properly registering. _“I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure. Now then…”_

His right hand wrapped around Peter’s arm. Bucky had no intention of letting him go, no matter how hard it might be. All he had to do was channel Steve’s stubborn hope, right? After all the time he spent around his best friend, that shouldn’t be too difficult.

But though he braced himself for a struggle, nothing happened.

Peter lifted his head, letting go of Bucky’s hand; a moment later, he sighed and rested his forehead against the man’s palm. Bucky didn’t have time to ask what happened before a familiar voice filled the room. _“What, no one invited me to the party? Whatever, that’s fine. My feelings aren’t hurt or anything.”_

“Stark,” Sam greeted, hanging his head in relief. “For future reference, you should give Cap permission to override protocols.” Maybe he did have that permission once upon a time—but things hadn’t quite returned to normal, so it didn’t shock Bucky that the former rogues had yet to recover all their former privileges.

 _“Yeah, that’s a discussion for later. They’re on their way back to you guys now, so be ready to hop in the car and get to the Quinjet. Here.”_ With a quiet click, the magnetization restraining Peter released. Bucky wasted no time in scooping him up, though he frowned at the dead weight in his arms.

They didn’t make it more than two steps before the kid gasped out, “Cap’s present!” with sudden vigor, and Sam didn’t question it as he went to the kitchen to grab the stress ball that’d been dropped on the floor, which he pressed into Peter’s hand before they continued to the front door.

Leaning against the wall, Bucky listened for the sound of an approaching vehicle, scoffing under his breath as Tony muttered, _“How come Cap’s getting presents?”_

The others didn’t keep them waiting for longer than a couple minutes before they pulled up to the porch with no regard for the lawn, and FRIDAY opened the door for Bucky and Sam to go out and meet them. Steve rushed out of the car and up to Peter, holding a hand in front of his face to feel the soft puffs of air escaping his nose. “Is he okay?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“Just drive the car.” Since Bucky didn’t exactly know the answer, he opted not to comment on Peter’s health, merely hurrying to settle in the back seat along with Sam.

The airman nodded a greeting to Clint, who sat in the passenger’s seat. “You guys have fun?”

“Cap broke the speed limit,” the archer commented lightheartedly, though Bucky didn’t fail to notice he had one hand clasped over the opposite arm, blood marring his exposed skin, “and I shot explosive arrows at things. Good times.”

 _“You know how to get to the hangar, right?”_ Tony’s voice came through the car’s speakers as Steve accelerated and mumbled affirmation. They saw it when they first arrived at the safehouse—half a mile down the street. But Bucky didn’t pay attention to the drive, figuring he’d leave that to his friend as he focused on watching the shallow rise and fall of Peter’s chest.

He only felt the urge to look up at the approaching structure when the kid murmured, “Keep driving…” Steve turned towards the hangar, at which point Peter threw out a hand to smack the seat and spoke louder. “Keep driving!”

His concentration broken, Steve screeched to a halt and turned his questioning gaze towards Peter, though he didn’t get the chance to ask _why_ —because an explosion and following shockwave cut him off, and everyone instinctively ducked as shrapnel struck the car, a few shards piercing the windows.

Okay, so Peter definitely had some weird premonition ability. A good thing, too, because being any closer to that explosion would be decidedly _not_ fun. And being _on_ the jet would have been even less fun.

Steve nodded as he recovered, sitting back up. “I’ll keep driving, then.”

 _“New plan: I’m going to come get you guys and take you to Bruce that way,”_ Tony announced.

“Rather than meet us halfway,” Clint supplied with a glance over his shoulder—at the ones who hadn’t been filled in on whatever plan they had before. Bucky could guess, anyway, that Tony and Bruce were on their own Quinjet headed towards the safehouse. “Speaking of,” the archer tossed a small case towards Sam, “is this of any use?”

Sam opened it up to find red-ringed bullets on one side—the same that the sniper used—and a blue-ringed vial and syringe on the other. “There _has_ been mention of an antidote, but I doubt it’s a good idea to risk injecting this. Not without any sort of testing first.” Which they currently lacked the equipment for because the jet that did have it was now a pile of rubble.

Should they go back to the safehouse? By then, they were a few miles away, and Bucky didn’t know if the others managed to fight off _every_ enemy or not. Staying in one place likely wasn’t a great idea, in the event that they’d be put under fire again.

“FRIDAY can—” Steve started to say.

“Keep driving,” Bucky cut him off. It went against every instinct he had, especially given the lack of response as he poked at the kid’s arm and cheek, but… “That’s what Petya said. _Keep driving,_ not _go back_. I think we should listen to him.”

Despite his frustrated sigh, Sam backed him up, one hand holding Peter’s wrist to monitor his pulse. “Barnes has a point. The kid _does_ have some freaky sixth sense, and his vitals are relatively stable. He should be able to make it.” Upon forcing one of Peter’s eyes open, Bucky received a grumbled protest as the kid scrunched up his nose and tried to turn his head away. Sam snorted. “And he might even stay awake if Barnes keeps pissing him off.”

“A necessary sacrifice,” Bucky dismissed.

Reluctant, Steve tightened his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, but he gave in despite his overwhelming concern. “Alright, but let me know if anything changes.” Bucky half-heartedly saluted him.

Tense silence and bumpy roads made up the next twenty or so minutes until Bucky caught sight of a red blur headed their way—one than soon landed in front of the car and glanced around at the shrapnel. “Definitely gonna have to take this one into the shop,” he said, pulling the pieces out of the windows so Sam and Clint didn’t have to be so careful when they moved. “Everyone buckled up? We’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Hi, Tony.” Steve leaned back in his seat and turned to watch Peter as Tony—Iron Man, rather—carefully picked up the vehicle and set off. Bucky vaguely recalled something about _Stark_ and _flying cars_ , and that was a more pleasant memory than the one he was presently doing his best to ignore, though the kid’s eyes fluttering open made for an even better distraction. Half-lidded gaze shifting to Steve, Peter let out a soft whine and weakly attempted to lift his hand, managing to move it enough for the soldier to take the hint and reach out to entwine their fingers. “Hey, kiddo.”

The corners of Peter’s lips twitched up just enough to hint at a smile before his eyes drifted shut once again. “You’d think he missed you or something,” Bucky murmured.

His expression softening, Steve glanced between Bucky and Sam. “Thank you for looking after him.” For the time being, Bucky decided not to mention that they could’ve lost the kid; thankfully, Sokolov’s plan had a caveat, for waiting until they couldn’t call Steve and Clint entailed waiting until they were closer to the jammer, and in the end, Bucky did manage to stall _just_ enough. Instead, he’d explain later—after he had a little more time to settle down and process everything.

Unfortunately, they weren’t done yet: they still had to make sure the kid lived to see another dawn.

Though Tony flew slower than usual to avoid jostling the car too much, he got them to the Quinjet in record time, calling out to Bruce to open the door for them to board. Once the car settled and the entrance shut again, Steve got out and helped Bucky carry Peter over to the most comfortable-looking flat surface—which, considering the kid’s hand remained attached to the soldier’s, required a bit of skilled maneuvering.

“FRIDAY, what are we looking at?” Tony inquired without preamble and barely a wave towards Bruce, who abandoned his science equipment to study Peter instead.

After a moment of analysis, the AI reported, **“Peter has lost a substantial amount of blood, and the poison appears to be causing internal damage to his soft tissue.”** Sam peeled the towel away from the kid’s chest, and from what Bucky could see of the wound, it looked… _mushy_ —more than tissue should. Deterioration, then. Some sort of acid?

Sam handed the case to Bruce. “We might have an antidote,” he said, “but you should check it out first.”

The doctor nodded and returned to his workspace; amongst the clutter was a holographic file of the poison’s chemical properties and some initial attempts at his own antidote. In the meantime, Sam did whatever he could to treat the injury while Steve rubbed his thumb against the back of Peter’s hand, Clint piloted, and Tony divided his attention between the kid and records of FRIDAY’s code.

“It, uh,” Bruce broke the silence a couple minutes later, “it’s a good thing you didn’t give this to him. It’s a more concentrated dose of the poison, so it… probably would have been lethal.”

Tony pumped an unenergetic fist in the air. “Hurray for common sense. Go team.”

“How long until we have an actual antidote?” Sam looked over his shoulder.

“Well… I should be finished before we get back to the Compound,” Bruce estimated. Which wasn’t ideal, but even world-famous scientists could only work so fast, after all.

Standing from where he sat watching Peter, Bucky searched for any sort of refrigerator or pantry, rummaging through once he found the limited selection and gathering up what sounded most nutritious. At Tony’s quirked eyebrow, he shrugged. “Petya didn’t eat lunch. It’ll help his healing factor if he has more energy.”

By the time Bucky made it over to Peter with snacks and a bottle of water, Steve and Sam propped the kid up against the wall, and the two carefully helped him chew and swallow, doing almost all of the work until Peter woke up a little more. Peter let them feed him for a few more minutes before he raised a hand to gently push Steve’s away. “Where…?” he mumbled.

“We’re going home, sweetheart.” Steve smiled, soft and relieved. “We’re going home.”

***

From the moment Peter could stand up, he refused to stay in the Medbay—even when he lacked the energy to _remain_ standing. Steve figured out through trial and error that the kid would get upset and seek him out if he woke up anywhere the soldier wasn’t, which meant that he couldn’t just leave Peter in bed or on the common room sofa to sleep. Which left him carrying the kid around with him any time he moved from one room to another.

In spite of that, Peter spent most of the next few days either asleep or unaware of his surroundings. Which was all well enough, considering the heavy atmosphere and amount of strategy meetings; somehow, Steve managed to keep his doting to a minimum during said meetings, ignoring any amused looks shot his way.

It’d be a joint operation, the Avengers teaming up with SHIELD and other government operatives who’d been thoroughly vetted, and Tony had his hands full with helping coordinate all the planning and communication—Steve got an earful every time he stopped by to see how he was doing.

Steve found himself struggling between his desire to take care of Hydra and his desire to stay with Peter, but ultimately, the former was necessary to ensure the latter remained possible. It didn’t help that the departure date coincided with Peter receiving his clean bill of health from Bruce.

“I’ll call you when I can, okay?” the soldier assured, his hands resting on Peter’s shoulders while the kid stared up at him. Beneath feigned neutrality, he could see the anxiety swimming in Peter’s eyes—the doubt, the urge to beg Steve to stay, all of it—and it made saying goodbye even harder. “And I’ll be back before you know it.”

At that, Peter shook his head, frowning. “Don’t be reckless. I… I’d rather you take longer and come back in one piece than not at all,” he chided.

Bucky nodded from where he stood with one shoulder leaning against the wall. “He’s right. You have to be more careful now that you’ve got a kid waiting on you.” Which was easier said than done, but hey, Steve always made it home.

“I know, I know.” The soldier rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “And you,” the words escaped his mouth without a second thought as he turned his attention to Bucky, “don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

“How can I?” his friend returned with a smirk that did weird things to his heart. “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”

Maybe he watched too many movies with Sam, but Steve got the feeling that if he told Bucky how he felt now, he’d inevitably be killed or severely injured on the upcoming mission; with that thought in mind, he kept his mouth shut and simply enjoyed the warmth that spread throughout his chest.

Peter snapped him out of his daze by wrapping his arms around him, burying his head into the soldier’s collarbone. “ _No_ ,” he whined. “Don’t take any stupid with you. Be smart.”

Chuckling, Steve returned the hug and pressed a kiss against the kid’s hair. “I’ll miss you, Peter,” he said in lieu of more reassurances, to which Peter nodded his agreement. He looked back up at Bucky, fondness flooding his expression.

He’d be back—no way he’d miss out on the cozy family life he dreamed of having.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a Tumblr [here](https://koolwhipped.tumblr.com/) if anyone is interested. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day! ♡


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